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FAMOUS 


FEENCH  AUTHOES 


BIOGRAPHICAL    PORTRAITS 


DISTINGUISHED    FRENCH   WRITERS 


THEOPHILE    GAUTIER 

EUGENE    DE    MIRECOUI^T 
Etc.,  Etc. 


JJUu0trat£& 


NEW    YORK 
R.    WORTHINGTON,    750    Broadway 

1880 


COPTBIGHT  BT 

WORTHINGTON. 
•i379. 


Teow's 

peintrkg  and  bookbutdikg  co., 

203-213  East  12th  St., 

NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


TH^OPniLE  Gautier.  .     By  Sainte-Beuve,    . 

Sainte-Bkuye.       .  .     By  Eugene  de  Mirecourt, 

Madame  Swetchinb.  .     By  M.  de  Pontmartin, 

Madame  de  Girardin  (Delphine  Gay).      By  Imbert  Saint 
Amand,              . 


Arsene  Houssatb. 
George  Sand. 
Alfred  de  Muiset. 
Victor  Hugo. 
Paul  de  Kock. 


By  Eugene  de  Mirecourt, 
By  Eugene  de  Mirecourt, 
By  Paul  de  Musset. 
By  Eugene  de  Mirecourt, 
By  Theophile  Gautier, 


Alphonse  de  Lamartine.     By  Theophile  Gautier, 


Gavarni.     . 
Charles  Baudelaire. 
HoNORE  DE  Balzac. 
Beranger. 
Brizeux.     . 
Henri  Monnier.  . 

Alexandre  Dumas. 
Maurice  de  Guerin. 
Denis  Diderot.     . 
Jean  de  La  Fontaine. 


By  Theophile  Gautier, 
By  Theophile  Gautier. 
By  Theophile  Gautier, 
By  Theophile  Gautier, 
By  Eugene  de  Mirecourt, 
By  Eugene  de  Mirecourt, 


By  Percy  Fitzgerald, 
By  Matthew  Arnold, 
By  John  Morley,  . 


rAoa 

7 
27 


56 
70 
85 
102 
119 
139 
145 
156 
168 
174 
253 
256 
259 

264 
272 
307 
319 


Note.— These  articles,  except  the  last  four,  are  now  translated  for  the  first  time,  by 
Fbamcis  a.  Shaw. 


TIH]E(Q)[FKlflILE  (SAyiHEH 


LIFE  PORTRAITS  OF  FAMOUS 

FRENCH  AUTHORS. 


THEOPHILE  GAUTIER.* 


Theophtle  Gatjtier  was  born  at  Tarbes,  August  31st, 
1811.  When  three  years  old,  he  went  to  live  in  Paris, 
we  might  say  he  returned  there,  so  much  is  he  a  part  of 
Paris.  He  writes  of  himself,  "  I  learned  to  read  at  the 
age  of  five  years,  and  after  that  time,  I  could  say  with 
Apelles,  Nulla  dies  sine  linea.  He  took  his  first  lessons 
at  the  college  of  Louis  le  Grand,  and  ended'  them  as 
day-pupil  at  Charlemagne.  His  father,  a  very  good  lin- 
guist, assisted  him  in  Latin  ;  but  the  boy's  taste  was  not 
for  the  purely  classic  authors.  Livy  and  Cicero  wearied 
him  ;  Martial,  and  Catullus,  Apuleius  and  Petronius, 
were  his  delight.  So  dear  to  him  were  these  writers  of 
the  decadence,  that  he  sought  to  imitate  them  in  all 
vajrieties  of  metre. 

Scarce  had  he  left  school  when  he  began  to  draw  and 
*  Nouveaux  Lundis. — Sainte-Beuve. 


8  LIFE  PORTKAITS. 

to  ■write  verses.  His  first  poem  was  an  imitation  of  Hero 
and  Leander  ;  he  also  undertook  in  heroic  verse,  a  poem 
upon  the  abduction  of  Helen.  He  had  written  two  and 
a  half  cantos,  when  his  taste  having  in  some  degree 
ripened,  he  threw  the  verses  into  the  fire.  He  then 
turned  his  attention  to  Brantome,  to  Rabelais,  and 
various  other  French  authors. 

In  his  last  college  year,  he  gave  up  his  morning  reci- 
tation to  take  lessons  of  Rioult,  a  painter  of  Prudhon's 
school  who  had  won  considerable  reputation  by  two  or 
three  fine  pictures. 

Gautier  was  then  living  with  his  parents  at  Place 
Royale,No.  8.  Two  or  three  years  later,  Victor  Hugo 
took  up  his  abode  at  No.  6.  He  and  Gautier  met  for 
the  first  time  in  1830,  and  the  ardent,  impulsive  student 
was  easily  induced  to  join  the  Hernani,  that  clique  of 
robust,  brilliant  young  men,  renowned  in  all  sorts  of 
athletic  exercises,  and  as  romancists,  waging  a  war 
against  the  classic  school,  fierce  as  any  contest  Guelph 
ever  waged  against  Ghibeline.  Victor  Hugo  was  chosen 
leader  of  this  band,  and  never  was  god  adored  with 
more  fervor. 

It  was  as  painter  and  art-pupil,  and  not  as  literary 
man,  that  Gautier  then  figured;  he  was  hesitating  be- 
tween the  two  careers.  In  July  1830,  he  published  a 
small  collection  of  verses,  "  Poems  by  Thdophile  Gautier  " 
was  its  title,  and  its  motto  :  Oh  !  si  je puis  unjour  !  Thus 
in  the  new  poetic  school,  he  ranks  in  date  immediately 
after  Alfred  de  Musset.  Gautier  was  then  not  quite 
nineteen  years  old. 

This  little  volume  has  a  nameless  charm.  Here  the 
poet  appears  "  under  a  blonde  aureole  of  adolescence," 
which  he  did  not  long  retain.  The  collection  thus  opens 
with  a  sigh  and  a  regret : 


•       THfeOPHILE  GAUTIER.  9 

Virginite  du  cceur,  helas  si  tSt  ravie  ! 
Songes  rianls,  projets  de  bonheur  el  d'amour, 
Fraiches  illusions  du  matin  de  la  vie, 
Pourquoi  ne  pas  diirer  jusqu^a  la  Jin  du  jour  ?  * 

And  then  come  childish  loves,  sweet,  smiling  land- 
scapes, roads  winding  through  sunny  valleys,  a  path 
along  the  hedge  and  the  brook-side,  leading  directly  to 
the  little  park  gate  to  which  attaches  a  tender  remem- 
brance. There  are  steeples  pointing  to  heaven  as  ia 
Wordsworth,  and  cathedral  towers,  and  Gothic  silhou 
ettes,  their  stony  lattice-work  outlined  against  the  glow 
of  the  setting  sun.  All  is  in  its  infancy,  but  even  in  the 
whiteness  of  this  dawn,  the  treatment  is  pure,  clear,  and 
unhesitating,  the  verse  perfect  in  form  and  rhythm. 

A  second  edition  of  Gautier's  poems,  which  appeared 
in  1830,  bore  the  title,  "  Albertus,  a  Theological  Legend," 
being  named  for  the  principal  poem.  Here  we  find  that 
Thfeophile  Gautier  has  become  a  master,  and  the  ques- 
tion constantly  recurs:  why,  although  his  poetry  is 
equal  to  Musset's,  was  his  success  so  long  confined  to  a 
narrow  circle  of  artists  and  connoisseurs  ?  The  French 
public,  it  would  seem,  can  tolerate  but  one  poet  at  a  time. 

Flitting  between  the  studio  and  the  literary  Cenacle^ 
Gautier  for  some  time  pursued  the  two  arts  with  equal 
ardor,  and  even  when  he  abandoned  painting,  the  divorce 
did  not  remain  entire;  he  still  painted  with  his  pen. 
Tlis  "Young  France,"  published  in  1833,  is  a  sort  of 
i!  Ibum  of  fashions,  costumes  and  travesties  of  that  day. 

About  this  time  he  went  to  lodge  with  some  friends 
ill  the  blind-alley  of  Doyennd,  that  relic  of  old  Paris, 
that  lost,  forgotten  islet  in  a  corner  of  the  Place  de 
'Carrousel,  which  ere  long  become  the  head-quarters  of 

*  Virginity  of  the  heart  so  soon  ravished!  Laugliing  dreams,  projects 
of  liappiness  and  of  love,  fresli  illusions  of  life's  morning,  why  do  ye  no\ 
endure  to  tiie  end  of  the  day  ? 

1* 


10  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

"  Young  France."  In  this  world  of  aspiring  artists  and 
literary  men,  it  was  the  fashion  to  put  on  feiocious  airs, 
to  feel  it  almost  dishonor  to  be  moved  at  anything.  Its 
device  might  have  been  those  oft-quoted  words  of  Ter- 
ence slightly  varied  ;  "  I  am  a-  man,  and  consequently  I 
interest  myself  in  nothing  human." 

Here  politics  were  spit  upon  as  vulgar  and  degrading ; 
here  Fancy,  muse  of  art,  was  held  in  highest  honor,  and 
when  one  of  the  members  withdrew  from  this  society  so 
perfectly  harmless  in  its  furies,  to  enter  the  real  outside 
life  of  violence,  conspiracy  and  hatred,  what  sweet, 
amiable  verses  Th^ophile  Gautier  would  address  to  him, 
calling  him  back  to  nature  and  its  twin  sister,  art ! 

Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  may  be  considered  Theophile 
•  Gautier's  first  prose  work.  He  devoted  two  years  to  its 
composition,  and  it  appeared  in  1836.  It  is  a  book  strik- 
ing both  in  plot  and  execution,  the  work  of  an  artist  and 
a  poet,  but  it  cannot  be  recommended  to  young  lady 
readers.  Every  physician  of  the  soul,  every  moralist, 
should  keep  a  copy  of  it  on  a  back  shelf  of  his  library. 

"  The  Comedy  of  Death,"  which  appeared  in  1838, 
shows  a  deeper  and  truer  development  in  our  artist  and 
poet.  This  poem  is  a  series  of  mournful  evocations  after 
a  walk  to  the  cemetery  on  All  Souls'  Day.  Raphael 
Faust,  Don  Juan,  Napoleon  himself,  appear  by  turns, 
before  the  eyes  of  our  poet,  who  demands  from  them 
their  secret  of  life  and  death.  But  none  of  these  great 
ones  who  has  come  back  to  him,  kaows  the  secret :  each 
send^  him  to  the  other. 

Faust  says ;  "  Love,  and  you  will  do  far  better  than 
to  study."  Don  Juan  says  :  "  Interrogate  science,  learn,- 
learn !  You  have  more  opportunity  on  this  side  than  on 
mine."  Finall}'',  the  great  Emperor,  having  pressed  the 
globe  in  his  hand  and  found  it  hollow,  begins  to  envy 


THEOPHILE    GAUTIER.  11 

the  tattered  goat-herd  of  his  native  isle.  Ever  in  the 
midst  of  feasts,  amid  the  intoxications  of  worldly  pleas- 
ure, Death  suddenly  appears  before  the  poet's  eyes ;  not 
the  death  of  the  ancients,  crowned  with  flowers  ana 
bringing  a  surcease  of  care  and  sorrow,  but  Death  with 
ghastly  visage  and  ferocious  sneer,  leaving  in  your 
heart  an  apprehension  like  that  of  Hamlet,  that  the 
funereal  night  may  not  be  a  long  slumber,  but  a  dream, 
and  that  all  may  not  end  with  life. 

II. 

The  poet  in  Th^iophile  Gautier  was  now  ripened  and 
complete  ;  at  first,  he  had  possessed  the  instrument,  he 
had  now  gone  to  the  depths  of  his  inspiration,  he  had 
made  the  grand  tour.  His  first  journey  to  Spain,  in  1840, 
had  furnished  him  with  new  notes  of  rich  and  ardent 
tone,  with  fresh  images  and  symbols ;  henceforth,  he 
would  know  how  to  ajDply  all  the  colors  of  his  pallet. 
His  collection  of  poems  given  to  the  world  in  1845,  is  a 
full,  harmonious  work.  The  poet  here  has  realized  his 
artistic  dream.  In  one  of  his  most  beautiful  pieces, 
"  The  Triumph  of  Petrarch,"  he  gives  us  his  secret,  his 
method  of  procedure,  which  he  religiously  puts  in  prac- 
tice. Addressing  himself  to  the  initiated,  to  poets,  he 
says : — 

Sur  I'autel  id€al  entretcnez  laflamme, 

Conime  un  vase  d'albatre  ou  I'on  cache  un  Jlamheau, 

Mettez  I'id^e  aufond  de  hi  forme  sculpt4e 

Et  d'une  lampe  ardente  ^clairez'ie  tombeau.* 

Is  he  in  love,  does  he  suffer?     Instead  of  complaining, 

*      "Maintain  tlie  flame  upon  the  ideal  altar, 

As  an  alabaster  vase  where  we  conceal  a  torch, 
Place  tlie  idea  at  the  depths  of  the  sculptured  form. 
And  light  the  tomb  with  a  glowing  lamp." 


12  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

of  bursting  out  into  tears  and  sobs,  which  are  unworthy 
of  him  and  of  his  creed  that  the  poet  must  not  moan  in 
public,  he  restrains  himself,  he  has  recourse  to  some 
image  as  to  a  veil,  he  throws  a  transparent  and  fanciful 
envelope  over  the  naked  sentiment ;  he  knows  how  to 
symbolize  an  unhappy  passion  under  a  just  and  ingenious 
emblem. 

In  turning  over  the  pages  of  Gautier's  poems,  we  are 
more  and  more  astonished  that  it  is  not  as  a  poet  he  has 
won  his  highest  renown.  Is  France  exclusive  in  poetry 
as  in  religion?  M.  de  Narbonne,  conversing  with  Na- 
poleon, who  had  proposed  the  formation  of  a  national 
church,  said,  "  There  is  not  religion  enough  in  France 
to  create  two  churches."  Can  it  be  that  there  is  not 
poetry  enough  in  France  to  admit  of  more  than  one  poet 
at  a  time  ? 

The  bard  who  has  won  his  first  laurels,  finds  it  hard 
to  remain  solely  a  poet  in  these  days.  Prose  smiles  upon 
him  from  all  sides,  under  all  enticing  forms,  and  finally  he 
yields  to  her  temptations.  Balzac  having  read  Mademoi- 
selle de  Maupin,  hastened  to  engage  the  services  of  its 
author  on  the  Chroniqne  de  Paris.  To  this  journal  Gau- 
tier  contributed  some  romances  and  some  critical  articles. 
He  wrote  also  for  the  evening  journal.  La  Charte.,  and 
for  Figaro,  to  which  he  contributed  the  "  Romance  of 
Fortunio,"  and  other  fantastic  articles.  In  1837,  he 
entered  La  Presse,  where  he  remained  domiciled  for 
many  years.  Here  he  became  one  of  that  brilliant  gal- 
axy of  writers  M.  Emile  de  Girardin  rallied  around  him, 
Madame  de  Girardin  herself  wielding  the  first  and  most 
valiant  lance.  Gautier's  twofold  career  of  art  and  dra- 
matic critic  began  regularly  for  the  La  Presse,  and  was 
never  interrupted  until  the  close  of  his  life.  In  1855,  he 
became  one  of  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Moniteur. 


THEOPHILE     GAUTIER.  13 

His  first  critical  essays  in  La  Presse  were  some  articles 
on  the  paintings  of  Eugene  Delacroix.  Soon  after  he 
applied  himself  to  theatrical  criticism  also.  In  Gautier, 
we  see  a  poet,  that  is,  a  being  accustomed  to  cultivate 
art  and  to  cherish  an  ideal,  suddenly  thrown  upon  his 
own  resources,  and  forced  to  take  up  the  trade  of  critic 
for  a  livelihood.  The  critiques  of  artists  and  poets  #re 
no  doubt  animated,  clairvoyant,  thorough  above  all,  but 
they  must  naturally  be  incisive  and  exclusive.  Inread- 
ing  Th^ophile  Gautier's  criticisms  on  dramatic  art,  we 
can  but  admire  his  graceful  acquittal  of  his  task,  his 
mastery  of  difficulties,  his  winning  a  half  triumph  for  his 
tastes  without  always  sacrificing  them.  He  has  been 
reproached  as  critic  with  a  sovereign  indulgence  and  in- 
difPerence.  He  has,  in  fact,  with  years  acquired  an  ex- 
cess of  leniency ;  the  Gautier  of  the  Moniteur  is  not  quite 
he  of  La  Presse^  but  though  lenient  he  is  not  indifferent. 
He  knows  how  to  mark  and  make.perceptible  his  shades 
of  liking  and  disliking.  When  forced  to  praise  what  he 
loves  least,  he  delicately  lowers  the  tone,  and  places  a 
damper  on  the  praise.  The  trade  of  criticism  has  its 
secrets. 

In  an  article  upon  Casimir  Delavigne,  Gautier  says: 
"In  the  world  of  art  there  stands  always  below  each 
genius,  a  man  of  talent,  preferred  to  him.  Genius  is  un- 
cultivated, violent,  tempestugus ;  it  seeks  only  to  satisfy 
itself,  and  cares  more  for  the  future  than  the  present. 
The  man  of  talent  is  spruce,  well-dressed,  charming,  ac- 
cessible to  all ;  he  takes  every  day  the  measure  of  the 
public  and  makes  garments  suited  to  its  stature,  while 
the  poet  forges  gigantic  armors  which  the  Titans  alone 
can  wear.  Under  Delacroix  you  have  Delaroche ;  under 
Rossini,  Do.iizetti ;  under  Victor  Hugo,  M.  Casiraii 
Delaviq:ne  I " 


14  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

III. 

In  1840,  Gautier  made  his  first  visit  to  Spain.  Up  to 
this  time  he  had  travelled  but  little,  having  left  France 
only  for  a  tour  through  Belgium  and  Holland.  The 
Th^ophile  Gautier  of  these  first  poems  is  represented  to 
us^as  a  young  man  very  sensitive  to  cold,  and  keeping 
closely  at  home,  "living  in  the  chimney  corner  with 
two  or  three  friends  and  as  many  cats."  That  journey 
to  Spain  made  another  man  of  him.  To  quote  his  own 
words,  "  The  soul  has  its  native  country  as  well  as  the 
body."  Upon  setting  foot  in  Spain,  he  at  once  recog- 
nized his  true  country.  Here  his  talent  discovered  an 
ample  field  for  pictures,  and  from  his  first  day  in  this 
enchanted  land,  he  became  the  accomplished  word-painter 
we  know. 

In  word-painting  lies  Th^ophile  Gautier's  true  literary 
conquest.  The  great  trouble  of  the  man  of  letters  has 
been  not  knowing  how  to  name  things.  Says  Bernardin 
de  Saint-Pierre,  "  The  art  of  rendering  nature  is  so  new 
that  not  even  the  terms  have  been  invented."  In  this 
regard  Gautier  has  shown  himself  an  exception  to  the 
general  rule.  He  is  never  more  at  his  ease  than  when 
placed  face  to  face  with  natural  scenery  or  art-objects 
to  be  developed  and  exhibited.  His  talent  seems  created 
expressly  for  describing  places,  cities,  monuments,  pic- 
tures, diverse  skies  and  landscapes.  His  is  not  one  of 
those  talents  which  reserve  themselves  for  display  on 
two  or  three  great  occasions,  which  prepare  themselves 
in  advance,  and  which,  the  grand  site  once  described, 
the  grand  piece  executed,  unbend  and  rest.  He  has  a 
mood  habitually  picturesque,  facile,  continuous;  he  must 
inevitably  see  and  depict  all.  In  reading  his  book  upon 
Spain,  from  the  moment  you  enter  that  country  with 


THEOPHILE    GAUTIEK.  15 

him  by  the  Bidassoa  bridge,  to  that  when  you  embark 
at  Valencia,  all  is  painted,  unrolled  before  your  glance. 
Henrich  Heine,  the  railer,  meeting  Gautier  at  one  of 
Liszt's  concerts  on  the  eve  of  his  departure,  said  to  him, 
"  How  will  you  manage  to  describe  Spain  when  you 
have  been  there?"  Gautier's  method  was  very  simple, 
[laving  seen  Spain  for  himself,  he  made  his  readers  see 
it  as  he  did.  His  recital  forms  a  bas  relief,  a  continuous 
panorama  where  all  is  a  picture.  At  the  decisive 
moment  when  Gautier  enters  Andalusia,  he*  receives 
that  sunstroke  which  bronzes  him ;  with  an  amorous 
transport,  he  salutes  that  Spain  warmed  by  breezes  from 
the  near  Afric  shore,  until  now,  his  vague  chimera  and 
his  dream. 

Most  fascinating  of  all  places  to  him  is  Granada  with 
its  marvels,  the  Alhambra  and  the  Generalife.  He  did 
not  content  himself  with  haunting  the  palaces  and 
Moorish  antiquities,  which  were  his  first  and  sovereign 
passion ;  he  saw  the  Moorish  society,  going  almost  every 
night  to  the  Tertulia,  and  mingling  familiarly  with  the 
beautiful  young  girls  and  laughing  children.  Some  of 
his  finest  sentiments  he  leaves  out  of  the  recital,  to 
enclose  them  in  the  sculptured  form  of  verse.  Such 
sentiments  we  find  in  his  pretty  poem  upon  the  Three 
Graces  of  Granada,  and  in  other  stanzas  worthy  to  be 
set  to  music  by  Mozart. 

Th^ophile  Gautier  owed  to  Granada  and  to  its  en- 
chanted sky,  hours  of  melancholy — a  serene  melancholy 
very  different  from  that  of  the  North.  The  plastic  poet 
while  thus  giving  a  fete  to  his  eyes,  conjuring  them  to 
seize  every  outline  of  the  beautiful  pictures  they  would 
never  see  again,  reveals  a  vivacity  of  sentiment,  a  depth 
of  emotion,  which  attest  a  peculiar  organization.  To  a 
laurel-tree  he   found  blooming  in   the    midst   of    the 


16  LIFE    POKTRAITS. 

Alliambra,  "  gay  as  victory,  happy  as  love,"  he  has 
addressed  verses,  almost  a  declaration  such  as  Apollo 
might  have  made  to  the  laurel  of  Daphne- 
Having  once  formed  a  taste  for  travel,  Gautier  indulged 
it  as  much  as  his  journalistic  duties  would  allow.  In 
1845,  he  saw  Africa  for  the  first  time,  visiting  Algeria 
in  July  and  August,  during  the  full  heat  of  summer, 
it  being  his  rule  to  enter  each  country  in  the  utmost 
violence  of  its  climate,  the  South  in  summer,  the  North 
in  winter;  to  give  himself  up  to  the  intoxication  of  the 
snow  as  well  as  to  that  of  the  sun.  In  1846,  he  revisited 
Spain.  In  1850,  he  travelled  in  Italy,  in  1852,  he  first 
saw  Constantinople  and  the  Orient.  He  returned  from 
Constantinople  by  the  way  of  Athens,  and  received 
there  a  second  sensation  vivid  as  that  he  had  experienced 
in  Spain.  In  the  presence  of  the  Parthenon,  of  the 
Erectheum,  of  those  immortal  relics  of  an  art,  which  as 
it  were  forms  a  part  of  nature,  in  sight  of  those  grand 
but  not  lofty  mountains,  of  that  horizon  sombre  and  perfect 
in  outline,  the  harmony  and  proportion  of  all  made  a 
deep  impression  upon  his  mind.  Athens  gave  him  the 
sense  of  measurement  ;  upon  his  return  he  found  that 
Venice  had  lost  in  this  regard ;  in  its  delightful  confu- 
sion it  seemed  less  divine  to  him  than  of  old.  "  Too 
late  have  I  known  real  beauty !  "  he  wrote  upon  leaving 
this  enchanted  soil  of  Attica. 

He  seemed  himself  to  become  a  part  of  every  country 
he  entered.  "  I  have  a  wonderful  facility,"  says  he,  "  for 
yielding  without  effort  to  the  life  of  different  countries. 
I  am  a  Russian  in  Russia,  a  Turk  in  Turkey,  a  Spaniard 
in  Spain." 

As  soon  as  the  tourist  sets  foot  in  a  country  delineated 
by  Gautier,  he  verifies  his  descriptions  at  every  step.  All 
tourists  render  him  full  justice  in  this  respect.     He  spares 


THEOPHILE    GAUTIER.  17 

work  to  his  successors.     Physically  he  exhausts  his  sub- 
ject. 

In  his  African  journey  of  1845,  he  accompanied  tha 
expedition  to  Kabylie  on  the  staff  of  General  Bugeaud, 
who  gave  him  a  tent,  two  horses  and  a  servant.  Of  the 
five  civilians  on  the  expedition,  three  died  from  fatigue 
or  heat.  Gautier  returned  to  Paris  in  an  Arabic  costume, 
coifed  with  a  fez  and  wearing  a  burnous.  He  made  his 
advent  into  the  city  on  the  top  of  the  Chalons  diligence, 
a  young  lioness  that  had  been  confided  to  his  care,  between 
his  knees.  He  had  himself  a  leonine  appearance  ;  sun- 
burnt, tawny,  with  flashing  eyes,  his  friends  recall  him 
as  he  was  at  this  fortunate  epoch,  in  all  the  strength  and 
pride  of  second  youth,  in  all  the  opulence  and  amplitude 
of  perfect  manhood,  breathing  in  life  with  full  lungs, 
having  his  own  style  of  dress,  oriental  in  design  and 
color.  Two  little  ponies  worthy  of  Tom  Thumb,  har- 
nessed to  an  elegant  coup^  whose  body  almost  grazed 
the  pavement,  bore  a  master  with  a  deep  olive  complex- 
ion who  majestically  filled  the  inside,  and  at  each  halt 
for  a  visit,  was  ready  to  mount  with  agile  step  to  the 
suite  of  apartments.  At  this  time  in  the  flush  of  health 
and  hope  and  worldly  satisfaction,  Gautier  wrote  his 
verses  entitled  "  Fatuity."     This  is  the  first  stanza : — 

Je  suisjeune,  la  pmirpre  en  mes  veines  abonde; 
Mes  cheveiix  sont  de  jais  et  mes  regards  dejeu, 
Et  sans  gravier  ni  toux,  ma  poitrine  prqfonde 
Aspire  a  pleins  poumons  I'air  du  del,  I'air  de  Dieu. 

These  are  magnificent  verses  of  their  kind,  verses 
overflowing  with  health  and  vitality.  We  comprehend 
how  one  may  be  tempted  to  be  a  materialist  when  matter 
is  so  rich  and  so  beautiful.  Never  could  a  meagre,  sickly 
man  write  such  poetry.  The  man  is  matured,  the  real 
man  has  displaced  the  young  man  of  dreams.     Nature 


18  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

in  her  vigor  and  vivacity  transports  him  and  transforms 
him.  This  is  her  law.  In  the  Goethe  of  Weimar,  m 
that  majestic  and  tranquil  personage  at  the  middle  and 
the  end  of  life,  who  would  recognize  Werther  ? 

There  is  much  to  be  said  upon  Gautier  the  art  critic 
and  the  romancer,  the  author  of  at  least  thirty  complete 
volumes.  In  two  or  three  well-turned  phrases,  one  can 
not  dispose  of  a  man  of  genius  who  has  written  thirty 
years. 

Art-criticism  in  the  way  he  comprehended  it,  con 
stitutes  one  of  the  innovations  and  one  of  the  especial 
talents  of  Theophile  Gautier.  His  description  of  a 
picture  which  he  makes  us  see  and  almost  excuses  us 
from  going  to  recognize,  has  this  peculiarity  ;  it  is  ex- 
clusively picturesque  and  not  at  all  literary ;  he  compels 
us  to  penetrate  into  the  character  of  each  painter,  into  the 
nature  and  intention  of  each  work,  and  shows  us  the 
degree  of  esteem  we  should  attach  to  it!  We  seem 
to  see  every  picture  in  the  light  of  his  description  ;  we 
see  it  not  only  in  its  plan,  but  in  its  effect,  its  coloring, 
its  outline.  Gautier*s  system  of  description  is  an  exact 
equivalent  reduction  rather  than  a  translation.  Just  as 
one  reduces  a  symphony  to  the  piano,  he  reduces  a  picture 
to  an  article.  It  is  not  ink  he  employs ;  it  is  outlines 
and  colors;  he  has  a  pallet  and  brushes.  He  applies  to 
painted  pictures  the  same  process  he  follows  in  regard  to 
natural  pictures  and  to  climates :  absolute  submission 
to  the  object.     He  renders  this  object  just  as  it  is. 

While  Theophile  Gautier,  himself  a  painter  and  a 
poet,  acquits  himself  so  conscientiously  in  his  humble 
r61e  of  critic,  it  is  but  just  that  he  should,  from 
time  to  time,  allow  himself  some  little  satisfactions, 
some  bits  of  execution.  He  must  have  some  indemnities 
and  consolations ;  he  must  show  his  own  little  talent. 


THEOPHILE     GAUTIER.  19 

and  attempt  in  his  way  something  like  what  the  artist  has 
done  in  his.  And  so  we  find  in  his  descriptions  many 
an  admirable  little  picture.  His  criticism  is  often  pure 
poetry,  the  lacryma  christi,  they  pour  out  to  you  from 
every  street  corner,  on  a  counter  of  silver.  And  do  you 
complain  ? 

Th^ophile  Gautier's  ideas  in  regard  to  painting  are 
peculiar.  He  would  not  have  the  artist  copy  all,  or  re- 
produce all,  and  in  painting  yield  to  that  infinity  of 
detail  which  is  the  triumph  of  the  daguerreotype.  "  It 
is  not  nature  he  must  render,  but  the  semblance  and 
the  physiognomy  of  nature.     All  art  lies  there." 

In  his  criticisms  of  pictures  he  has  always  maintained 
the  absolute  predominance  of  the  picturesque.  In  an 
article  upon  Ary  Scheffer,  he  remarks  that  picturesque 
thought  has  nothing  in  common  with  poetic  thought ; 
that  an  effect  of  light  or  shade,  a  rare  outline,  a  happy 
contrast  of  color,  all  these,  are  thoughts,  and  so  painters 
by  temperament,  born  painters,  find  them. 

In  his  criticisms  upon  painters,  Theophile  Gautier, 
neither  shows  the  prejudices  of  the  man  of  letters,  nor 
shares  the  illusions  of  the  crowd.  No  one  can  be  more 
benevolent  than  he  to  all  sorts  of  talent.  Where  others 
would  be  rude  and  harsh,  he  has  the  gentleness  and  con- 
sideration of  a  brother.  "  Why,"  says  he,  "  write  in  the 
morning's  journal  things  about  an  honest  man  which 
you  would  not  say  if  he  were  present  at  dinner  in  the 
evening  ?  Because  the  words  you  write  will  be  read  by 
fifty  thousand  persons  is  no  reason  for  being  impolite 
and  Wounding." 

Never  has  a  malicious  sentiment  entered  the  soul  of 
this  critic,  sagacious  as  kindly.  With  the  profound  an- 
tipathies of  his  class,  he  always  softens  the  expression 
of  his  dislike  for  works  or  persons.     He  has  never  seem- 


20  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

ed  to  feel  envy  of  those  engaged  in  like  avocations  with 
himself,  and  no  personal  feeling  has  ever  made  him  at- 
tenuate his  praise  of  authors  or  poets.  None  have 
written  more  charming  or  amiable  things  than  he  o^ 
Alfred  de  Musset,  a  rival  poet  preferred  to  himself. 

IV. 

Generally  speaking,  in  both  literature  and  painting, 
Theophile  Gautier  is  a  rebellious  Frenchman,  a  refract- 
ory critic.  He  loves  with  a  sincere  love,  both  Rabelais 
and  Ronsard,  and  some  poets  of  the  reign  of  Louis  XIII. 
Among  all  the  authors  of  the  so-called  grand  age,  La 
Bruyere  alone  pleases  him.  But  he  prefers  the  foreign 
to  the  national  masterpieces,  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Heine, 
people  his  heaven,  and  are  his  gods.  This  feeling  re- 
peats itself  in  painting.  There  is  a  sort  of  grey  (this  is 
his  word)  in  French  art,  which  he  can  appreciate  but 
which  little  charms  him.  He  must  have  more  sun  or 
snow,  more  tropical  or  boreal  clearness.  He  loves  ex- 
tremes. What  we  call  lucidity,  limpidity,  has  no  great 
charm  for  him.  He  loves  all  that  has  savor  or  color. 
This  preference  has  led  him  to  a  very  high  regard  for 
English  art  from  Reynolds  to  Landseer.  This  regard  he 
has  fully  expressed  in  a  series  of  articles  called  forth  by 
what  he  saw  at  the  great  London  Exposition  of  1862. 

Theophile  Gautier's  art  vocabulary  is  inexhaustible 
and  is  the  wonder  of  connoisseurs  from  the  precision 
and  distinctness  of  its  shades.  The  French  language 
will  neither  adopt  nor  retain  all  his  art  terms,  but  it 
suffices  to  his  honor  that  he  has  introduced  a  goodly 
number  that  will  endure,  and  that  he  has  rendered  im- 
possible those  dim  and  vague  descriptions  with  which 
we  were  once  content,  but  which  are  no  longer  in 
fashion. 


THEOPHILE     GAUTIER.  21 

In  1845,  Gautier  in  conjunction  with  tlu-ee  others, 
Madame  de  Girardin,  M^ry  and  Jules  Sandeau,  wrote  a 
society  novel,  each  taking  up  the  romance  where  the 
other  left  it.  The  title  of  the  story  is  "  The  Cross  of 
Berny."  It  was  a  wager,  and  it  was  admirably  won. 
Gautier  sent  his  last  contribution,  a  letter,  from  the 
camp  of  Ain-el-Arba  in  Africa.  A  series  of  charming 
novelties,  alluring  from  their  oddity,  appeared  in  quick 
succession  from  Gautier's  pen.  The  first  was  La  Morte 
Amoureuse.  It  was  followed  by  Une  Nuit  de  Gleopdtre^ 
Jean  et  Jeannette^  and  Le  Roi  Candaule. 

Gautier  as  romancer,  has  more  than  once  thought  pro- 
per to  avail  himself  of  his  talent  as  traveller  to  render 
the  various  countries  of  his  acquaintance  or  his  dream. 
He  loves  to  give  as  a  foundation  for  his  recitals,  a  precise 
place  and  country  around  which  a  large  portion  of  the 
interest  centres.  Thus  in  "  Militona"  he  shows  us  Spain 
-new ;  in  "  Arria  Marcella,"  he  has  resuscitated  ancient 
ompeii,  in  the  "  Romance  of  a  Mummy,"  he  transports 
us  to  Egypt.  He  has  never  seen  Egypt  with  his  own 
eyes,  but  he  has  thoroughly  studied  it  in  its  literary  mon- 
uments and  pictures.  This  romance,  entirely  retrospec- 
tive, contains  nothing  which  could  make  real  savants  or 
the  initiated  frown. 

In  1848,  the  position  of  Theophile  Gautier,  the  luxur- 
ious artist  and  journalist,  received  a  violent  shock.  He 
never  complained  on  his  own  account,  he  took  part  iu 
the  February  revolution  only  through  his  losses. 

Taking  sides  with  none,  disconcerting  himself  as  little 
as  possible,  he  wrote  of  art  and  the  ideal,  to-morrow  as 
yesterday,  after,  as  before.  He  chose  this  stormy  time 
which  left  him  a  great  deal  of  enforced  leisure,  to  en- 
grave his  "  Emeralds  and  Cameos,"  and  ere  long,  com- 
pleted and  arranged  his  casket.     Of  all  his  prose  and 


22  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

poetic  works,  the  "  Emeralds  and  Cameos"  are  the  most 
artistic  and  finished,  and  he  must  hold  them  closest  to  his 
heart.  Of  his  three  volumes  of  verses,  this  has  been  the 
most  admired  and  praised,  and  no  collection  of  poems 
since  the  grand  successes  of  Hugo,  Lamartine  and  Mus- 
set  has  had  so  large  a  sale. 

In  these  poems  a  deep  sensibility  often  lies  concealed 
under  the  imagery  or  under  irony,  but  it  is  not  absent. 
Le  Vieux  de  la  Vieille,  for  example,  a  souvenir  of  the 
rendition  of  the  ashes  of  Napoleon,  is  one  of  the  pieces 
where  the  smile  lies  nearest  to  tears.  One  evening, 
when  Mile.  J.  of  the  Theatre  Frangais  was  reciting  this 
piece  at  a  soiree  in  the  presence  of  the  author,  he  sudden- 
ly broke  out  into  sobs.  Bravo  !  stoic  of  art,  sometimes 
affecting  more  impassibility  than  you  possess,  do  not 
repent  having  for  a  moment  obeyed  nature,  for  having 
betrayed  that  fountain  of  the  heart  which  is  within 
you !  That  air  of  perfect  insensibility  often  proves  only 
the  extreme  diffidence  of  a  most  tender  sensibility, 
which  blushes  at  letting  itself  be  seen  by  indifferent  eyes. 

"  Captain  Fracasse  "  is  a  romance  of  the  age  of  Louis 
XIII.,  an  epoch  very  dear  to  Thcopliile  Gautier,  and  to 
which  he  had  given  a  great  deal  of  study.  His  volume  o  f 
"  Grotesques  "  (1844)  contains  a  series  of  original  and 
strongly  marked  portraits  of  that  time.  In  composing 
"  Captain  Fracasse,"  some  twenty-five  years  ago,  he  as- 
sumed a  most  difficult  task,  that  of  writing  a  romance, 
nearly  imitative,  which  should  correspond  to  the  ancient 
date  wherein  the  scene  was  laid,  and  yet  possess  a  sort 
of  freshness  and  novelty,  an  indispensable  requisite  in 
every  modern  work.  The  principal  characters  of  this 
story  are  country  comedians,  the  immediate  predecessors 
of  Moliere's  youth.  Owing  to  the  great  taste  Gautier 
has  for  art,  and  for  a  sort  of  conventional  art,  he  has 


I 


THEOPHILE    GAUTIER.  23 

chosen  to  study  life  in  comedy  rather  than  to  seek  after 
comedy  in  life.  This  imposes  upon  him  an  entire  lan- 
guage, a  continuous  style,  a  sort  of  gamut  and  harmoni- 
ous ladder,  where  the  key  once  given,  there  is  no  false 
note  or  dissonance.  He  has  acquitted  himself  marvel 
lously  well.  The  first  part  of  the  romance  is  a  chef 
cCoeuvre  of  its  kind ;  it  is  the  classic  of  the  romantic. 

In  "  Captain  Fracasse,"  we  pass  from  picture  to  picture ; 
there  is  not  a  page  which  does  not  present  some  picture 
entirely  finished  or  begun.  The  whole  story  seems  to 
serve  as  a  canvas  and  a  pretext  for  them.  It  is  a  ro- 
mance album  for  the  use  of  artists  and  amateurs  in  en- 
graving. * 

Judging  this  romance  from  its  true  standpoint,  it 
must  be  pronounced  a  masterpiece  in  the  literature  of 
the  age  of  Louis  XIII.  Although  treating  of  scenes 
two  centuries  old,  it  has  still  the  gloss  of  novelty. 
When  hereafter  the  literary  history  of  that  age  shall  be 
written,  this  posthumous  work  must  be  included  in  the 
record. 

At  this  hour  of  awakening,  this  tidings  of  so  unexpect- 
ed an  aftermath,  we  seem  to  gaze  into  that  sort  of  bizarre 
and  Bacchic  elysium,  which  we  can  easily  imagine  as 
the  abode  of  those  free  and  somewhat  foolhardy  spirits 
before  Louis  XIV.  The  shade  of  the  jovial  Saint-Amant 
leaps  for  joy,  the  poet  Theophile  feels  himself  consoled 
and  avenged  through  all  the  future  for  his  disgrace. 
Scarron  bounds  with  delight  from  his  arm-chair,  while 
Cyrene  more  haughty  than  ever,  passes  and  repasses 
upon  the  populous  Pont-Neuf,  where  a  double  row  of 
bourgeois  and  astonished  knaves  admire  him. 

*An  elegant  edition  of  "  Captain  Fracasse,"  beautifully  illustrated  by 
Gustave  Dore,  has  been  issued  in  Paris,  and  has  found  its  way  to  thia 
country  ! 


24  LIFE    POETRAITS. 

Saint-Beuve's  portrait  brings  down  the  life  of  Theophile 
Gautier  to  1864.  He  lived  eight  years  longer,  years 
fruitful  in  mental  activity.  His  last  work  was  Tableaux 
du  SUge.  He  thus  concludes  a  biographical  sketch  of 
himself  dated. 1867;  "I^have  written  three  volumes 
of  verse  and  without  being  a  romancer  by  profession,  a 
dozen  romances.  I  have  worked  on  ia  Presse,  on  Figaro^ 
on  La  Caricature,  on  the  Family  Museum,  the  Revue  de.'i 
Deux  Mondes,  the  Revue  de  Paris^  everywhere  Parisian 
journalists  have  written  in  my  time.  I  have  published 
innumerable  articles  on  all  sorts  of  subjects,  three  hund- 
red volumes  in  all — and  yet  the  world  calls  me  an  idler, 
and  asks  why  I  do  not  go  to  work." 

Gautier's  bosom  friend,  Ernest  Feydeau,  in  his  interest- 
ing memories  of  Theophile  Gautier  (Souvenirs  Intimes, 
Paris,  1874),  gives  a  full  account  of  his  literary  and 
private  life.  He  sets  Gautier  very  high  intellectually 
indorsing  the  words  of  another  who  has  styled  him  the 
French  Goethe.  Feydeau  one  day,  repeated  this  phrase 
to  his  friend.  "  But  in  one  respect  at  least,  I  can  never 
resemble  Goethe,"  said  he,  "  I  have  no  Duke  of  Wei- 
mar." 

"  A  child  of  the  sun,  born  to  travel  and  to  write  ver- 
ses," lack  of  fortune  and  the  necessities  of  daily  life, 
chained  this  brilliant  poet  and  artist  to  the  dull,  mechan- 
ical routine  of  journalism.  He  was  a  literary  drudge, 
he  could  attain  no  full  development  of  his  powers. 

In  religion  he  was  a  Pantheist,  and  at  heart,  beneath 
an  outward  joviality,  he  bore  the  deep  sadness  inherent 
in  that  cheerless  faith.  "  I  have  never  doubted  immor- 
tality," he  said,  "but  to  my  mind  the  second  life  is  worse 
than  the  first." 

No  writer  has  had  so  copious  a  vocabulary  as  Gautier. 
In  his  hands  the  French  language,  seemingly  designed 


TH^OPHILE     GAUTIER.  25 

expressly  for  lawyers,  politicians  and  savants,  becomes 
rich  in  color  and  full  of  imagery,  lending  itself  to  all 
the  necessities  of  poetry  and  art.  "  Because  the  classic 
writers  of  the  18th  century  used  only  twelve  hundred 
words,  must  we  deprive  ourselves  of  the  thirty-thousand 
other  words?"  asks  Gautier.  His  descriptive  powers 
are  unrivalled. 

A  lover  of  peace,  with  a  shuddering  horror  of  the 
barbarism  and  sacrilege  of  war,  he  lived  through  that 
last  French  reign  of  terror,  but  the  shock  mentally  and 
physically  was  too  great  for  him  to  bear.  He  never  re- 
covered from  it.  His  last  glance  was  doomed  to  rest 
upon  France,  the  land  of  his  love  and  pride  and  glory, 
conquered,  humiliated,  and  at  the  mercy  of  a  foreign  foe. 
He  died  of  hypertrophy  of  the  heart.  Neither  himself 
nor  his  friends  dreamed  that  his  last  hour  was  so  near. 
The  loving  cares  of  his  family  smoothed  his  pathway  to 
the  grave.  "He  was  all  to  us,  —  he  was  our  entire 
universe,"  said  his  sister  to  Ernest  Feydeau.  He  had 
his  faults  and  weaknesses,  but  never  was  man  better 
loved  by  his  friends. 

He  had  sought — too  persistently  his  best  friends 
thought — entrance  to  the  Academy.  Although  his  merit 
was  never  denied,  this  honor  was  refused  him.  Though 
influential  members  pressed  his  claims,  the  august 
Forty  could  never  forget  some  early  eccentricities  of 
dress  and  manner,  discarded  in  his  wiser  and  riper  years. 
But  the  death  of  Theophile  Gautier,  having  occurred 
during  the  session  of  the  five  academies,  President  Ca- 
niille  Doucet  waived  the  rule  forbidding  allusion  being 
made,  during  the  public  session,  to  any  but  membei-s, 
and  paid  an  eloquent  tribute  to  the  illustrious  dead. 
"  Lettei-s  in  despair,"  he  said,  "  weep  a  true  poet,  a  bril- 
liant writer  dear  to  us  all.      Numerous   suffrages   have 

2 


26 


LIFE    PORTRAITS. 


proved  that  his  place  was  among  us,  and  so  much  the 
more  do  we  deplore  the  sudden  stroke  beneath  which 
he  has  fallen." 

This  appropriate  homage  to  the  candidate,  who  had 
he  lived,  might  the  next  day  have  been  one  of  their 
number,  was  received  with  great  favor  and  sympathy 
by  the  whole  Academy. 

But  he  they  thus  sought  to  honor  had  no  need  of 
earthly  praise.     The  tribute  had  come  too  late. 


SAINTE-BEUVE. 


Sainte-Beuve  has  left  no  personal  memoirs  ;  his  biog- 
raphy must  be  gathered  from  his  correspondence  and 
from  occasional  allusions  to  himself  in  his  voluminous 
writings.  Although  he  has  been  the  frequent  theme  of 
encyclopedists  and  essayists,  his  true  life  remains  to 
be  written,  and  let  us  hope  that  some  pen  will  ere  long 
do  full  justice  to  the  man,  as  well  as  to  the  critic,  poet 
and  historian. 

M.  Le  Roy,  professor  in  the  university  of  Li^ge,  hav- 
ing written  to  Sainte-Beuve  requesting  some  biographL 
cal  account,  which  might  be  inscribed  on  the  records 
of  the  institution,  received  the  following  meagre  and  im- 
perfect sketch  dated  June  28th  1868,  only  a  few  months 
before  the  great  critic's  death. 

"  Charles-Augustine  Sainte-Beuve  was  born  December 
23d,  1804,  at  Boulogne-sur-Mer.  His  father,  district 
comptroller  and  tax-commissioner  of  Boulogne,  was 
married  and  died  the  same  year,  1804,  a  few  months 
before  the  birth  of  his  son.  His  mother  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  Boulogne  sea-captain  who  had  married  a  lady 
of  English  descent.      She  was  a  woman  of  fine  Intel- 


28  LIFE     POETRAITS. 

lectual  abilities,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  sister-in-law,  she 
superintended  the  education  of  her  fatherless  child. 

Born  in  the  honest  bourgeoisie^  and  in  the  most  mod- 
est of  conditions,  Charles- Augustine  pursued  his  studies 
in  his  native  city,  learning  rhetoric  at  the  boarding- 
school  of  M.  Bleriat,  under  a  good  humanist  named  M. 
Clouet.  Having  finished  his  rhetorical  course  while  in 
his  fourteenth  year,  he  desired  to  complete  his  studies 
in  Paris,  and  Madanie  Sainte-Beuve,  entirely  devoted  to 
the  future  of  her  son,  decided  to  gratify  this  laudable 
wish.  In  the  month  of  September  1818,  they  arrived  in 
Paris,  where  the  young  student  entered  the  institution 
of  M.  Landry,  at  the  same  time  attending  the  classes  of 
the  College  of  Charlemagne.  In  the  competitions  at 
the  end  of  his  first  year,  he  won  the  prize  for  history. 

In  1821,  Sainte-Beuve  entered  Bourbon  College, 
where  he  studied  rhetoric,  philosophy  and  mathematics. 
At  the  general  competition  in  1822,  he  won  the  first 
prize  for  Latin  verse.  He  now  devoted  himself  to  the 
study  of  science  and  medicine,  pursuing  the  latter 
until  1827.  For  a  year  he  was  day-pupil  at  the  Saint- 
Louis  hospital,  and  he  received  great  benefit  from  his 
medical  studies  at  this  date. 

Meantime  in  the  year  1824,  a  new  journal,  The  Globe, 
had  been  founded.  It  was  under  the  direction  of  his 
former  university  professors,  who  had  lost  their  places 
upon  the  triumph  of  the  religious  faction.  The  editor- 
in-chief,  M.  Dubois,  had  been  Sainte-Beuve's  rhetoric 
professor,  and  the  young  student's  literary  articles  found 
a  ready  insertion.  These  first  articles  have  not  been 
collected.  They  have  a  general  bearing  upon  historic 
works  relative  to  the  French  Revolution,  also  upon 
poetic  and  purely  literary  works. 

The  French  Academy  having  proposed  as  the  subject 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  29 

of  its  prize  essay,  "A  Tableau  of  the  Literature  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century,"  Sainte-Beuve  at  the  suggestion  of 
a  learned  friend,  set  about  the  study  of  this  subject. 
Abandoning  the  academic  contest,  he  preferred  to 
examine  the  picture  on  its  purely  poetic  side.  This  led 
to  the  insertion  in  the  Globe  of  a  series  of  articles  from 
hif)  pen,  which  were  collected  in  1828,  under  the  title 
of,  *'  A  Historic  and  Critical  Tableau  of  French  Poetry 
and  of  the  French  Drama  of  the  Sixteenth  Century," 
The  work  was  issued  in  two  octavo  volumes,  the  second 
confined  to  selections  from  the  works  of  Pierre  Ronsard 
with  notes  and  commentaries.  This  rehabilitation  of 
Ronsard  and  the  poetry  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
excited  a  lively  controversy,  and  at  the  first  onset, 
ranged  Sainte-Beuve  among  the  adherents  of  the  roman- 
tic school. 

In  fact,  an  article  inserted  in  The  Crlohe  of  January 
2d,  1827,  and  which  was  remarked  and  commented  upon 
by  Goethe,  had  led  to  an  acquaintance  between  Victor 
Hugo  and  Sainte-Beuve,  which  ere  long  grew  into  an 
intimacy.  This  intimacy  endured  for  many  years,  and 
hastened,  indeed,  gave  birth  to  Sainte-Beuve's poetic  de- 
velopment. In  1829  he  published  anonymously,  a  little 
16mo  volume,  entitled,  "  Life,  Poems  and  Thoughts 
of  Joseph  Delorme."  This  Joseph  Delorme  was  Sainte- 
Beuve's  exact  moral  image. 

The  following  year,  he  published  a  collection  of 
poems,  entitled,  "  The  Consolations,"  which  had  a 
success  less  contested  than  Joseph  Delorme.  To  the 
Revue  de  Paris  of  1829,  he  contributed  articles  upon 
Boileau,  La  Fontaine,  Racine,  Jean  Baptiste  Rousseau, 
Mathurin  Regnier,  and  Andr^  Chenier,  thus  inaugu- 
rating that  series  of  literary  portraits  since  so  fully  de- 
veloped. 


30  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

The  Revolution  of  July,  1830,  could  not  fail  to  inter 
fere  with  the  literary  pursuits  of  young  writers  and 
with  the  lucubrations  of  the  romantic  poets  of  that 
day.  Sainte-Beuve  during  the  months  immediatelj''  fol- 
lowing the  Revolution,  wrote  many  anonymous  articles 
for  The  Q-lobe,  and  the  next  year  he  attached  himself  to 
The  National.  But  his  incursions  into  politics  were 
brief,  he  soon  returned  to  purely  literary  pursuits.  The 
Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  just  founded,  furnished  hira 
an  ample  and  suitable  frame  for  his  critical  studies. 
His  articles,  contributed  both  to  this  review  and  the 
Revue  de  Paris,  were  gathered  into  five  octavo  volumes, 
which  appeared  under  the  title  of  "  Critical  and  Literary 
Portraits."  These  articles,  constantly  augmented,  have 
sin-ce  been  collected  under  the  several  titles:  "Portraits 
of  Women — Literary  Portraits — Contemporary  Portraits 
— and  Last  Portraits."  This  collection  has  been  many 
times  republished  with  slight  variations. 

In  1834,  Sainte-Beuve  published  a  romance  in  two 
volumes,  entitled  "  Volupte," — ^^p  to  the  present  date 
it  has  passed  through  five  editions. 

In  1837,  another  volume  of  Sainte-Beuve's  poems  ap- 
peared. "Thoughts  in  August"  was  its  title.  lu 
1840,  the  "  Complete  Poems  of  Sainte-Beuve "  were 
given  to  the  world.  In  1863,  a  similar  collection  in 
two  volumes  was  published  by  Michael  Levy. 

In  the  autumn  of  1837,  Sainte-Beuve  journeyed  to 
Switzerland,  where  he  was  invited  to  give  a  course  of 
lectures  to  the  Lausanne  Academy,  upon  Port  Royal,  a 
subject  which  had  occupied  his  thoughts  for  several 
years.  He  delivered  eighty-one  lectures  upon  this  theme, 
and  they  formed  the  basis  of  his  work  on  Port  Royal 
which  appeared,  the  first  volume  in  1840,  the  last  in 
1859      The  long  interval  between  the  publication  of 


SAINTE-BEUYE.  31 

several  volumes,  is  explained  by  the  diverse  labors  and 
events  which  interrupted  the  literary  life  of  its  author. 

Since  the  year  1840,  Sainte-Beuve  had  been  one  of 
the  directors  of  the  Mazarin  Library;  in  1845,  he 
became  a  member  of  the  French  Academy.  The  insta 
bility  which  after  the  revolution  of  1848,  marked  the 
destinies  of  France,  induced  him  to  accept  a  call  to  the 
professorship  of  French  literature  in  the  university  of 
Li^ge.  In  October  1848,  he  assumed  the  duties  of  that 
office,  whose  difficulties  were  far  greater  than  he  had 
dreamed.  He  gave  three  lectures  a  week.  The  Mon- 
day lectures  designed  for  students  and  the  public,  were 
upon  Charlemagne  and  his  Epoch ;  the  Wednesday  and 
Friday  courses,  designed  for  the  students  alone,  were 
exclusively  upon  French  Literature.  The  remembrances 
of  this  year  of  university  life,  will  always  be  precious 
to  him.  He  came  very  near  settling  at  Li^ge.  Later,  it 
was  in  his  power  to  pay  his  public  tribute  of  gratitude 
to  Belgium,  when  in  1861,  he  published  two  volumes 
upon  Chateaubriand,  and  his  Literary  Group  under  the 
Empire.  His  life  and  labors  at  Li^ge  are  summed  up 
in  these  volumes. 

Not  married,  but  having  a  mother  more  than  eighty 
years  old,  Sainte-Beuve  returned  to  Paris  in  1849,  under 
the  presidency  of  Louis  Napoleon.  Doctor  Fdron  of 
the  Constitutional  proposed  to  him  to  begin  immediately 
in  that  journal,  a  series  of  literary  articles  to  appear 
every  Monday.  This  series  was  a  success,  and  decided 
our  author  to  resume  his  literary  pursuits.  Sainte-Beuve 
continued  these  articles  three  years  in  the  Constitutional, 
then  in  the  3Ioniteur,  wliich  had  become  the  official 
journal  of  the  Empire.  A  collection  of  them  appeared 
in  1851,  under  the  title  of  Causeries  de  Lundi  ("  Monday 
Literary  Gossip,")  and  was  repeated  during  succeeding 


32  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

years,  until  the  edition  had  reached  fifteen  18mo 
volumes. 

Appointed  professor  of  Latin  Poetry  in  the  College 
of  France,  the  course  was  stopped  by  political  insub- 
ordination on  the  part  of  the  students,  when  only  two 
lectures  had  been  given.  But  from  these  lectures  came 
the  volume  entitled  "  A  Study  upon  Virgil."  Sainte- 
IJeuve's  name  continued  to  figure  as  professor  upon  the 
college  rolls  long  after  he  had  renounced  the  duties  of 
that  office.  Being  now  appointed  professor  in  the 
Normal  School,  he  for  three  or  four  years,  scrupulously 
performed  the  functions  demanded  by  that  position. 

The  Constitutional,  claimed  anew  his  pen  as  critic 
and  journalist,  and  he  resumed  his  literary  Lundis,  on 
the  16th  of  September  1864.  This  series  of  articles  has 
been  collected  under  the  title  of  Nbuveaux  Lundis. 

In  1865,  the  Emperor  was  pleased  to  confer  upon 
Sainte-Beuve  the  dignity  of  Senator.  In  August  1859, 
he  had  been  made  a  Commander  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor. 

Failing  health  has  allowed  him  little  opportunity  to 
take  part  in  the  discussions  of  the  Senate,  even  upon 
subjects  in  which  he  has  felt  the  liveliest  interest.  The 
role  he  has  assumed,  and  which  has  rendered  him  in  a 
certain  sense,  the  champion  of  free  thought,  has  been 
less  the  result  of  a  change  of  views  than  of  an  irresisti- 
ble impulse.''  *  *  *  * 

This  dry  meagre  sketch  from  the  hand  that  has  so 
delightfully  portrayed  the  lives  of  others  of  far  less 
genius  and  renown,  proves  that  no  man  is  really  fitted 
to  be  his  own  biographer. 

Sainte-Beuve,  whom  the  world  called  so  happy  and 
successful,  lived  and  died  a  disappointed  man.  Hia 
dearest  wish  was  to  be  a  poet.     In  his  poetical  aspira- 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  33 

tions,  he  was  one  with  Addison  and  Johnson,  with  Jef- 
frey and  Professor  Wilson,  with  Macaulay  and  Bulwer 
Lytton.  Two  young  men  of  his  time,  Lamartine  and 
Victor  Hugo,  had  become  famous  as  poets,  and  he  count- 
ed nothing  more  glorious  than  to  follow  in  their  foot- 
steps But  he  could  follow  only  afar  off,  and  then  it 
was  but  with  halting  gait  and  broken  wing.  He  lacked 
that  one  supreme  gift,"  the  vision  and  the  faculty 
divine,"  which  distinguishes  the  poet  born  from  the 
poet  made.  His  poetic  utterances  are  expressive  but 
unmelodious,  his  verses  when  not  wholly  fantastical,  are 
tame  and  colorless.  Hazslitt's  acrid  sentence  in  regard 
to  Campbell,  applies  to  Sainte-Beuve's  poetry  as  a 
whole :  "  A  painful  regard  is  paid  to  the  expression,  in 
proportion  as  there  is  little  to  express,  and  the  decom- 
position of  prose  is  substituted  for  the  composition  of 
poetry." 

In  extolling  his  merits  as  critic,  Sainte-Beuve  did  not 
like  to  have  the  world  treat  lightly  his  claims  as  poet. 
As  parents  best  love  the  child,  sickly,  deformed,  unldnd- 
ly  dealt  with  by  nature,  so  this  author  loved  his  poems 
in  which  the  world  saw  so  little  to.  admire.  Sainte- 
Beuve,  the  poet,  was  always  jealous  of  the  reputation  of 
Sainte-Beuve,  the  critic.  He  liked  to  have  people 
allude  to  his  verses,  to  listen  with  apparent  interest 
while  he  recited  extracts  from  them.  One  word  of 
praise,  for  "  Joseph  Delorme  " — for  the  "  Consolations," 
or  the  "  August  Thoughts  "  would  cause  him  more  de- 
light than  a  lengthy  eulogium  of  the  Causeries  de  Lundi. 

While  the  world  in  general  ridiculed  his  poetry,  some 
benevolent  souls  found  in  it  much  to  praise  and  to 
admire.  They  justly  ascribed  to  him  great  originality 
as  a  poet,  perfect  sincerity  of  sentiment,  and  an  observa- 
tion  of  nature   minute   as  that  we  find  in  Crabbe  or 

2* 


34  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

Wordsworth,  or  Cowper.  Jules  Janiii  says,  "  He  was 
an  inventor  in  poetry,  he  gave  it  a  new  and  entirely 
modern  note,  and  of  the  whole  Cenacle,  he  was  certainly 
the  most  romantic*  *  He  struck  the  midst  of  the  little 
lanes  bordered  by  lowly  flowerets  where  no  one  in 
France  had  passed  before  him.  His  execution,  some- 
what laborious  and  complicated,  arises  from  the  difficul- 
ty of  reducing  to  metrical  form  ideas  and  images  not 
yet  expressed,  or  disdained  until  now,  but  how  marvel 
lously  come  the  verses  when  the  effort  is  not  felt ! 
What  an  intense  and  subtle  charm  !  What  an  intimate 
penetration  of  the  lassitudes,  of  the  soul !  What  divi- 
nation of  unavowed  desires,  and  of  secret  aspirations  ! 
Sainte-Beuve,  the  poet,  would  be  a  fitting  subject  for  a 
long  and  interesting  study." 

It  was  in  criticism  that  Sainte  Beuve  reigned  without 
a  rival,  and  to  be  king  of  French  critics  is  great  as  to  be 
king  of  French  poets.  Here  he  is  upon  his  native  heath, 
here  he  can  be  praised  without  the  serious  qualifications 
with  which  we  limit  our  estimate  of  him  as  poet,  novelist 
and  historian. 

In  many  of  his  earlier  criticisms  he  was  ruled  by  the 
passion  of  the  hour.  In  dealing  with  the  works  of  Lam- 
artine,  Victor  Hugo  and  Alfred  de  Musset,  he  showed 
all  the  fervor  of  the  disciple  who  admires  whatever  falls 
from  his  master's  lips.  Later,  he  felt  called  upon  to 
qualify,  to  lower  the  tone  of  some  of  his  earlier  utter- 
ances, "  In  criticism,"  he  says,  "  I  have  long  enough 
acted  as  advocate,  let  me  now  act  as  judge."  His  man- 
ner of  dealing  with  Chateaubriand  illustrates  his  own 
precepts.  He  showed  that  the  pretended  monarchist 
was  a  leveller  at  heart,  that  the  eloquent  defender  of 
Christianity  was  a  confirmed  skeptic,  and  the  admired 
preacher  of  morality,  a  libertine. 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  35 

"  Unlike  Goethe,  who  says,  '  We  must  encourage  the 
beautiful,  for  the  useful  encourages  itself,'  Sainte  Beuve 
took  for  his  device,  '  The  true  and  the  true  only,'  leav- 
ing the  good  and  the  beautiful  to  shift  for  themselves. 
To  his  mind  appearances  were  always  deceitful,  the  sur 
face  was  not  a  mirror,  but  a  veil.  With  Bruy^re,  he 
believed  that  man  must  not  be  judged  like  a  statue  or 
a  picture,  at  a  certain  angle,  and  a  first  glance,  that 
there  is  in  him  an  interior  and  a  heart  which  must  be 
fathomed." 

As  critic,  Sainte  Beuve's  great  endeavor  is  to  be  just ; 
he  loves  better  to  praise  than  to  censure,  and  his  criti- 
cism is  usually  kindly ;  but  sometimes  it  is  scathing  and 
merciless.  He  has  a  respect  for  tradition  amounting  to 
reverence,  and  a  readiness  to  accept  novelties  akin  to  a 
passion.  He  seeks  to  introduce  a  charm  into  criticism 
blending  poetry  and  anecdote  with  the  rarest  tact  and 
often  with  a  piquant  humor.  He  pays  to  all  truths, 
whether  hallowed  by  time  or  struggling  for  recognition, 
an  equally  sincere  worship. 

In  1845,  Sainte-Beuve  was  chosen  to  fill  the  vacancy 
left  in  the  French  Academy  by  the  death  of  Casimir 
Delavigne ;  twenty-four  years  later,  the  chair  left  vacant 
by  his  death  was  to  be  filled  by  Jules  Janin.  The  king 
of  theatrical  critics  thus  succeeded  the  king  of  book 
critics.  In  Janin's  discourse  upon  his  illustrious  pre'de- 
cessor,  he  renders  him  full  justice,  attributing  to  him 
marvellous  sagacity,  profound  intuition,  subtle  delicacy, 
patience  of  investigation,  and  that  gift  of  comj^rehend- 
ing,  penetrating,  feeling  all,  of  entering  into  the  most 
opposite  natures,  living  their  life,  thinking  their  thoughts, 
and  descending  with  a  golden  lamp  in  his  hand,  into  the 
inmost  recesses  of  their  hearts.  Janin  declares  that  like 
the  Hindoo  gods,  Sainte-Beuve  had  the  gift  of  passing 


36  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

through  a  perpetual  succession  of  incarnations  and 
avatars.  He  pays  a  just  tribute  to  that  curiosity,  always 
wide-awake,  never  satisfied,  which  thinks  it  knows  noth- 
ing if  the  least  detail  escapes  it.  "  Homo  duplex^  says 
the  Latin  philosopher.  With  Sainte-Beuve  man  was 
triple,  and  seeking  to  complete  the  portrait  which  to  all 
others  seemed  finished,  he  demanded  new  sittings  from  his 
model,  he  inquired,  he  sought,  he  found  ;  h^e  did  not 
allow  the  picture  to  go  from  his  hands  until  the  resem- 
blance of  the  work  on  his  easel  left  nothing  to  be 'de- 
sired." 

Thus  in  death  as  in  life,  Sainte-Beuve's  true  fame 
must  rest  on  his  achievements  as  critic,  rather  than  poet, 
that  reputation  so  much  dearer  to  his  heart.  Age  did 
not  chill  his  ardor  for  the  Muse,  nor  lessen  his  aspirations. 
Thirty-two  years  after  the  appearance  of  his  second 
volume  of  poems,  he  wrote  to  a  brother  bard ;  "You  saw 
me  during  those  six  celestial  months  of  my  life  which 
gave  birth  to  the  "  Consolations."  If  the  world  had  but 
dealt  kindly  with  his  poems,  Sainte-Beuve  would  liave 
done  little  in  prose,  and  his  critical  portraits,  superior  in 
their  way,  to  all  other  efforts  in  this  direction,  would 
never  have  seen  the  light.  "  The  Consolations  "  was  a 
book  full  of  that  Christian  mysticism  then  so  prevalent, 
and  which  in  the  works  of  Fenelon,  Pascal  and  Madame 
Guyon,  had  produced  so  marked  an  influence  upon 
French  literature.  "  P^oZwjo^e,"  Sainte-Beuve's  only  novel, 
has  been  justly  characterized  as  "  a  romance  of  the  flesh 
and  the  spirit."  It  was  justly  censured  for  immorality, 
and  added  little  to  the  author's  reputation.  It  may  be 
set  down  as  one  of  the  sins  of  his  youth. 

Sainte-Beuve's  style  is  original,  as  that  of  Carlyle. 
Balzac  used  to  call  it  "  the  Sainte-Beuve  dialect." 

Mentally,  the  great  critic  resembled  his  father,  a  man 


I 


SAINTE-BEUVE.  37 

of  superior  culture  and  refined  literary  taste  ;  physically, 
he  was  the  exact  image  of  his  mother,  a  woman  of  excel- 
lent sense  and  judgment  and  more  than  ordinary  abilities. 
Very  plain  in  youth  and  middle  life,  his  features,  with 
advancing  years,  must  have  won  something  of  that  spirit- 
ual beauty,  with  which  mind  transfigures  matter,  for  one 
of  his  biographers  speaks  of  "  his  beautiful  face  set  in  its 
frame  of  silver  hair."  He  never  married,  but  he  was  no 
woman-hater.     He  was  more  than  once  in  love. 

t*iously  reared  in  boyhood  by  his  mother  and  a  maiden 
aunt,  who,  both  deeply  religious,  sought  to  make  a  saint 
of  him,  he  became  skeptical  in  later  years,  although  there 
is  no  evidence  that  he  ever  went  to  the  extreme  of  utter 
incredulity.  He  longed  for  a  return  of  the  simple,  un- 
questioning faith  of  his  boyhood,  and  was  haunted  by  a 
continual  regret  that  he  could  not  still  trust  implicitly  in 
the  teachings  he  had  received  at  his  mother's  knee. 

This  mother's  old  age,  soothed  by  the  affectionate  care 
of  her  son,  was  tranquil,  prosperous  and  happy;  but 
there  had  been  a  time  when  her  only  child  was  to  her  a 
source  of  anxiety  and  disappointment.  His  abandon- 
ment of  medicine  for  a  literary  career  had  almost  broken 
her  heart,  and  she  never  fully  believed^in  him  or  in  the 
wisdom  of  his  choice,  until  he  was  admitted  to  the  French 
Academy.  Then  she  saw  that  to  be  a  great  author  was 
really  as  fine  a  thing  as  to  be  a  great  physician. 

Sainte-Beuve  died  October  13th,  1869,  of  a  lingering 
and  painful  malady.  He  left  the  world  in  the  full  vigor 
of  his  intellectual  powers.  No  family,  no  immediate 
relatives  followed  him  to  the  final  resting-place,  but  a 
whole  nation  were  his  mourners.  In  him  French  litera- 
ture lost  its  brightest  ornament. 

In  his  last  will  and  testament,  Sainte-Beuve  thus  gave 
directions  as  to  his  funeral  obsequies : — 


38  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

"  I  wish  my  interment  to  be  purely  civil,  witliout 
pomp,  witliout  solemnity,  with  no  insignia,  no  tokens  of 
honor. 

"  I  request  that  the  body  and  the  societies  to  which  I 
have  the  honor  to  belong,  shall  be  represented  at  my  in- 
terment by  no  deputation,  but  I  shall  be  grateful  if  a 
few  colleagues  and  confreres  are  pleased  individually  to 
accompany  ray  remains.  My  resting-place  is  Mont  Par- 
nasse,  at  my  mother's  side. 

"  I  desire  no  discourse  from  any  of  my  testamentary 
executors,  but  that  one  of  them,  Lacoussade  or  Troubal, 
in  a  few  simple  words,  thank  the  friends  who  shall  have 
accompanied  -me  to  the  tomb. 

"  September  28th,  1869." 

The  wish  was  respected.  Without  psalm  or  prayer, 
or  priest,  or  pious  word  of  trust  in  God  or  hope  of  im- 
mortal life,  was  consigned  to  earth,  all  that  was  earthly 
of  the  greatest  of  French  critics. 


MADAME  SWETCHIXE.  * 

Sophie  Soymonoff,  she  who  was  one  day  to  become 
Madame  Swetchine,  was  born  in  Moscow,  November 
22d,  1782.  Her  father,  the  sou  of  an  ancient  Muscovite 
family,  occupied  a  liigh  post  in  the  civil  administration 
of  the  empire  ;  her  mother  came  from  a  race  distinguished 
alike  in  letters  and  in  arms.  Her  maternal' grandfather, 
Major-General  Boltine,  adding  arduous  literary  to  mili- 
tary labors,  had  translated  nineteen  volumes  of  the 
French  Encyclopedia  into  Russian. 

Sophie's  childhood  witnessed  the  last  voluptuous  years 
of  the  reign  of  the  Empress  Catherine  H.,  and  the 
brief  career  of  Paul,  so  soon  to  end  in  a  tragic  death. 
The  scenes  and  associations  of  her  every  day  life  passed 
amid  that  strange  medley  of  license  and  arbitrary 
power,  could  but  produce  grave  reflections  in  this 
meditative  and  penetrating  soul.  Withdrawing  as 
much  as  possible  from  society,  she  gave  her  hours  to 
study,  and  reading  became  the  joy  and  consolation  oi 
her  life.  Her  father,  although  courtier  and  Confidential 
Secretary,  found  time  to  devote  to  his  daughter's  educa- 
tion, and  with  his  fondness  for  her,  soon  blent  a  pater- 
nal pride  in  her  rapid  progress  and  attainments.  In, 
music,  drawing  and  the  languages,  she  showed  like 
talent,  and   the   brilliancy   of  her   intellect   was   only 

*  Causeries  de  Samedi. — M.  de  Ponlmartiii. 


40  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

equaled  by  the  elevation  or  lier  moral  nature  and  the 
goodness  of  lier  lieart. 

In  1796,  when  Paul  I.  succeeded  to  the  throne,  Sophie 
Soymonoff  was  named  maid  of  honor  to  his  wife,  a 
woman  of  great  loveliness  of  character,  an  angel  of 
patience  to  her  violent,  capricious  husband.  Here  the 
young  girl  learned  her  first  lesson  in  the  sorrows  of 
life,  the  silent  tears  so  often  shed  by  those  whose  out- 
ward happiness  and  grandeur  are  the  envy  of  the  world. 
Under  the  maternal  care  of  the  good  Empress  Marie, 
she  reached  her  seventeenth  year.  Life  at  court  had 
not  changed  her  love  for  study,  and  she  acquired  here 
many  accomplishments.  She  was  not  beautiful.  Her 
blue  eyes  were  small  and  slightly  crossed,  but  very 
lively  and  amiable  in  expression,  her  nose  had  la  pointe 
Kalmouk,  but  her  complexion  was  dazzling.  She  was 
of  medium  height,  and  of  graceful,  elegant  bearing ; 
her  voice  was  sweet  and  sympathetic  ;  she  possessed  the 
most  exquisite  refinement  and  delicacy  of  manner,  and 
conversational  powers  of  uncommon  brilliancy. 

This  high-born  young  girl  had  many  suitors, .  and 
among  them  was  Count  Strogonof,  a  young  Russian 
nobleman  of  fortune  and  talent.  Between  these  two 
there  was  ardent  affection,  but  in  those  troublous  times, 
poHcy  determined  marriages  in  high  life  far  oftener  than 
love.  Without  a  rebellious  word,  Sophie  yielded  to 
the  wish  of  the  father  she  adored,  and  accepted  for  a 
husband.  General  Swetchine,  who  was  twenty-five  years 
her  senior.  He  was  a  man  of  tall,  commanding  figure, 
of  sterling  character,  and  a  firm,  though  gentle  spirit. 
This  married  pair  had  few  tastes  in  common,  but  they 
lived  amicably  together  for  fifty  years,  each  having  the 
good  sense  to  allow  the  other  to  pursue  the  chosen  path. 
Renouncing  the  idea  of  that  highest  happiness  in  mar- 


MADAME  SWETCHINE.  4] 

riage  whicli  results  from  perfect  accord  of  tastes  and 
sympathies,  Madame  Swetchine,  while  neglecting  no 
domestic  or  wifely  duty,  gave  her  leisure  ho|^s  to 
charity,  to  literature,  and  to  the  society  of  a  few  chosen 
friends.  At  her  father's  death,  which  occurred  soon 
after  her  marriage,  she  took  home  her  young  sister, 
doubly  orphaned,  and  became  to  her  a  second  mother. 

The  appearance  of  the  Count  de  Maistre  at  the  Rus- 
sian court,  whither  he  had  come  as  the  moneyless  ambas- 
sador of  a  crownless  king,  produced  a  marked  change 
ir  Madame  Swetchine's  life  and  thought.  These  two 
souls,  drawn  together  from  the  extremes  of  Europe, 
were  united  by  a  common  piety  and  ardent  love  for  the 
truth. 

In  her  early  readings,  Madame  Swetchine,  had  pillaged 
hap-hazard  from  her  books,  accepting  Rousseau,  and 
even  Voltaire,  proscribing  neither  La  Harpe  nor  Madame 
de  Genlis,  lending  a  serious  ear  both  to  Marmontel  and  to 
Young's  Night  Thoughts.  She  had  the  instincts  of  a 
bee,  which  gathers  honey  even  from  poisonous  flowers. 
The  extracts  she  made  from  these  early  readings  formed 
thirty-five  manuscript  volumes.  When  -the.  decisive 
hour  of  her  conversion  from  the  Greek  to  the  Catholic 
faith  arrived,  she  had  read,  annotated  and  copied  enough 
to  fill  the  life  of  ten  Benedictines,  Once  Catholic — she 
was  already  more  than  half  French — she  had  only  to 
journey  to  France  to  find  her  true  country  and  her  true 
countrymen. 

Her  removal  to  France  occurred  in  1816,  at  the  dawn 
of  the  Restoration.  She  met  again  in  Paris  the  elite, 
— alas !  decimated  by  death — of  that  French  colony 
twenty  years  before  exiled  from  home,  and  thrown  upon 
the  shores  of  the  Neva.  The  noble  exiles  had  repaid 
Russian  hosjiitality  with  brilliant  lessons,  useful  services 


42  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

and  fine  examples.  In  these  old  friends  Madame  Swet- 
chine  greet-ed  alike  memories  of  her  native  land  and 
the  ho^es  inspired  by  the  new  country.  She  was  warmly 
welcomed  by  the  highest  and  noblest  of  Paris,  and  she 
ere  long  became  the  centre  of  a  society,  select,  brilliant, 
intellectual,  with  higher,  more  spiritual  thoughts  and 
aims  than  characterized  other  aristocratic  circles  of  the 
French  capital.  Her  quick,  acute,  subtle  intellect,  the 
firmness  and  elevation  of  her  character,  gave  her  an 
ascendancy  over  all  around  her.  She  established  a 
salon,  grave  in  character,  artificial  in  aspect,  and  the 
only  one  in  Europe  distinguished  by  a  pronounced 
theological  complexion. 

"  What  kind  of  a  salon  is  that,"  asks  the  skeptical 
Sainte-Beuve,  "  where  a  few  steps  from  you,  beliind  a 
door,  you  perceive  an  oratory,  into  which  the  pious 
hostess  goes  to  edify  and  fortify  herself  before  receiving 
you,  and  which  she  soon  re-enters  to  edify  herself  anew  ? 
Do  I  say  an  oratory?  It  is  a  chapel,  a  consecrated 
chapel,  where,  in  the  midst  of  dazzling  luminaries,  is 
exposed  the  Holy  of  Holies,  the  Holy  Sacrament,  which 
many  present  go  to  adore  at  the  stroke  of  midnight — to 
adore,  is  saying  too  little,  since  at  certain  solemnities, 
the  sacred  table  is  always  ready  for  those  who  await 
it.  "  This  is  not  a  salon  ;  it  is  a  religious  circle,  a  succur- 
sale  of  the  church,  give  it  what  name  you  please — a 
house  of  charity  for  the  use  of  people  of  the  world,  a 
vestibule  of  Paradise.  Gay,  brilliant,  inspired,  wise, 
witty  salon  of  all  time,  where  enjoyment,  audacity, 
wisdom,  folly,  charm  the  hours,  I  do  not  recognize  thee. 
— Madame  Svvetchine  carried  with  her  the  tabernacle 
and  the  consecrated  Host ! " 

But  this  was  a  salon  after  M.  de  Pontmartin's  own 
heart — aristocratic,   intellectual,    dignified    and   pious. 


MADAME  SWETCHINE.  43 

He  says:  "In  her  salon  Madame  Swetchine  diffused 
around  her  a  nameless  charm,  and  proved  herself  worthy 
of  all  the  homage  paid  her.  Here  was  benevolence 
without  feudality,  tolerance  without  skepticism ;  here 
v/as  an  aroma  of  goodness  and  intelligence.  Here  was 
authority  so  much  the  m'ore  obeyed  because  it  never 
asserted  itself ;  here  was  feminine  tact,  softening  asperi- 
ties and  conciliating  dissonances  ;  here  was  that  undefina- 
ble  atmosphere  where  souls  breathe  at  ease,  that  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  communion  which  quickens  the 
mind  and  expands  the  heart." 

Madame  Swetchine  could  not  have  chosen  a  more 
auspicious  moment  for  her  naturalization  in  France.  If 
the  women  of  the  first  Empire  may  be  cited  as  types 
of  plastic  and  sculptural  beauty,  those  of  the  Restora- 
tion had  other  advantages  more  in  harmony  with  the 
time  in  which  they  lived.  Mind  seemed  to  have  de- 
throned force  and  form;  never  had  more  intellectual 
women  been  seen  in  Paris.  Madame  Swetchine,  who 
was  a  soul  rather  than  a  body,  had  only  to  remain  her- 
self, to  enter  into  the  movement  of  ideas,  and  to  accept 
here  a  leading  place. 

In  the  Paris  of  that  day,  Madame  de  Montcalm  gath- 
ered around  her  the  jiolitical  celebrities.  Mme.  de  Stael 
still  lived,  Mme.  Recamier,  always  young,  was  still  beauti- 
ful. A  new  poet  had  arisen ;  the  Muse  of  Chateaubriand 
hovered  over  the  world,  suspended  between  two  abysses. 
The  Duchess  de  Duras  and  her  daughter  extended  the 
hand  of  friendship  to  the  Russian  stranger,  of  whose 
genius  they  had  a  presentiment  before  sounding  its 
depths;  and  others  highest  in  social  position  and  in 
letters,  gave  her  kindly  greeting. 

We  see  Madame  Swetchine  in  intimate  relations  or 
in  correspoadeuce  with  the  most  illustrious  men  and 


44  LIFE  PORTRjUTS. 

women  of  her  time.  Her  letters,  that  grand  superiority 
of  superior  women,-  already  afiford  us  glimpses  of  the 
natuial  and  acquired  perfections  of  a  soul  which  later 
revealed  itself  in  writings  not  given  to  the  world  until 
after  her  death. 

The  sky  of  France  soon  darkened  anew, — the  truce 
between  the  revolution  and  the  tutelary  monarchy  v/as 
broken.  Days  of  trial  and  anguish  came  again  for 
those  who,  like  Madame  Swetchine,  hoping  better  things 
of  their  age  and  country,  had  believed  in  a  possible 
reconciliation  between  old  prejudices  and  new  ideas 
A  few  months  sufficed  to  change  the  aspect  of  Parisian 
society;  the  democratic  element  menaced  it,  the  bour- 
geois element  ruled  it ; — new  names,  new  faces  appeared 
at  this  crisis  which  but  presaged  others.  Birth  and 
education  had  made  Madame  Swetchine  a  monarchist, 
although  she  was  no  believer  in  absolute  power,  and  in 
the  new  troubles  which  had  come  upon  France,  she 
naturally  sided  with  the  monarchical  party.  The  revo- 
lution of  July  had  affrighted  her,  that  of  1848,  agitated, 
but  did  not  surprise  her.  She  rendered  full  justice  to 
those  who  were  striving  to  do  a  little  good  by  prevent- 
ing a  great  deal  of  evil — to  Lamartine,  to  General  Ca- 
vaigriac ;  but  she  gave  full  and  clear  written  expression 
to  her  dislike  of  the  motives  and  character  of  Louis 
Kapoleon. 

Madame  Swetchine's  house  was  kept  with  great  care, 
though  without  luxury  of  any  sort.  She  never  gave 
soirees  or  dinners,  but  gathered  a  few  people  at  a  small 
round  table,  to  the  furnishing  of  which  she  attended 
with  strict  personal  care.  Her  drawing-room  was  open 
to  her  friends  morning  and  evening,  and  was  always 
brilliantly  lighted.  She  had  brought  from  her  Russian 
home  a  love  of  brilliant  illumination,  and  her  rooms 


MADAME  SWETCniNE.  45 

sparkled  with  lamps  and  tapers.  The  first  impression 
was  that  of  a  place  of  worldly  fashion ;  but  her  guests 
soon  perceived  that  a  higher  spirit  reigned  here,  and 
that  she  who  possessed  all  these  advantages,  was  not 
herLslf  possessed  by  them.  She  was  a  favorite  alike 
with  old  and  young,  and  she  knew  the  secret  of  capti- 
vating women,  so  rare  in  one  of  their  own  sex.  Her 
own  toilette  was  simple,  being  invariably  a  costume  of 
brown  stuff,  from  which  she  never  departed ;  but  her 
taste  in  dress,  as  in  all  else,  was  correct  and  refined,  and 
she  liked  to  see  young  ladies  in  society  elegantly  attired. 
They  used  to  come  to  her  at  night,  when  dressed  for 
balls,  and  pass  in  review  before  her  indulgent  but  criti- 
cal eyes ;  and  the  next  morning,  these  same  young 
people  would  be  at  her  side,  telling  their  secrets,  and 
asking  her  advice. 

She  was  very  systematic  in  the  allotment  of  her  time ; 
her  day  was  divided  into  three  parts.  She  rose  before 
sunrise,  and  the  morning  hours  were  exclusively  her 
own.  At  eight  o'clock,  she  had  already  visited  the  poor, 
and  been  to  church  ;  then  until  three  in  the  afternoon, 
the  time  was  at  her  own  disposal.  From  three  to  six, 
her  salon  was  open  to  her  friends,  from  six  to  nine,  it 
was  closed ;  but  at  nine  she  again  received  guests,  who 
remained  until  midnight.  Her  afternoon  and  evening 
visitors  were  generally  distinct;  some  of  those  who  came 
in  the  afternoon,  had  never  met  those  who  came  at 
night. 

Madame  Swetchine  was  never  a  mother,  but  she  had 
reared  an  adopted  child,  Nadine,  who  afterwards  be- 
came the  Countess  de  Segur  d'  Aguesseau.  She  also 
took  charge  of  Helene,  the  daughter  of  a  dear  absent 
friend. 

In  1834,  this  quiet  household  was  convulsed  by  a 


46  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

blow  which  came  directly  from  the  hand  of  the  Emperoi 
Nicholas,  who  ordered  the  exile  of  General  Swetchine 
to  any  part  of  the  Russian  provinces  he  might  choose,  so 
it  was  only  far  enough  from  Moscow  and  St.  Peters- 
burgh.  This  sentence  was  for  alleged  misconduct  of 
whic'  he  had  been  guilty  during  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Paul .  The  decree  of  exile  reached  Paris  in  the  heart 
of  winter. 

Madame  Swetchine  suffered  more  on  her  husband's 
account  than  her  own.  He  was  then  seventy-seven 
years  of  age,  and  it  was  very  hard  for  him  to  leave  his 
delightful  Parisian  home  in  the  Rue  St.  Dominique,  with 
its  stately  houses  and  leaf}'"  gardens,  for  life-long  exile 
in  some  dreary,  provincial  town  of  Russia.  His  wife 
told  him  of  the  decree  of  exile,  and  had  difficulty  in 
making  him  understand ;  he  was  not  conscious  of  having 
committed  any  offence.  Against  his  entreaties  for  her 
to  remain  in  Paris,  she  insisted  upon  accompanying  him. 
Meantime,  influential  friends  in  St.  Petersburgh  had 
obtained  a  respite,  which  Madame  Swetchine  employed 
in  traversing  Europe  to  plead  her  husband's  cause  in 
person.  She  left  Paris  in  August,  1834,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  November  following  that  her  courageous  efforts 
were  crowned  with  success.  In  March,  she  reached  her 
beloved  home  in  the  Rue  St.  Dominique,  where  she  sank 
exhausted  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  and  lay  for  three  months 
hovering  between  life  and  death. 

Madame  Swetchine's  charities  were  many,  though 
unobtrusive,  and  were  exercised  alike  at  home  and 
abroad.  It  has  been  said  of  her  that  she  knew  how  to 
comfort  the  poor  in  their  needs  and  the  rich  in  their 
domestic  troubles ;  how  to  arouse  the  moral  energies  of 
the  unfortunate.  INIany  came  to  her  for  consolation, 
and  each  left  her  with  an  expression  of  peace.     Interest- 


MADAME  SWETCHIN2.  47 

ed  in  all  benevolent  enterprises,  her  especial  sjonpathies 
were  aroused  in  behalf  of  institutions  for  the  deaf  and 
dumb,  and  the  welfare  of  the  serfs  on  her  own  estates 
in  Russia  lay  very  near  her  heart.  She  was  one  of  the 
first  to  advocate  the  abolition  of  serfdom. 

In  1850,  General  Swetchine  died  at  the  extreme  age 
of  ninety-two.  From  that  time  his  widow  lived  in  great 
retirement,  although  a  circle  of  intimate  friends  slill  met 
at  her  salon  in  the  Rue  St.  Dominique.  In  this  latter 
period  of  her  life,  she  made  still  further  advances  toward 
Christian  perfection.  Her  charity  grew  broader  and 
more  active ;  she  felt  an  affinity  to  all  vrho,  in  these  troub- 
lous times,  sought  the  consolations  of  religion. 

Her  health,  gradually  declining,  began  to  inspire  the 
most  anxious  solicitude.  She  sank  gently,  almost  im- 
perceptibly. Her  lovely,  pious  life  wore  away  in  the 
exercise  of  every  Christian  duty ;  never  were  her  intel- 
lectual faculties  brighter,  nor  her  spiritual  sense  clearer 
than  upon  the  day  of  her  death,  in  the  autumn  of  1869. 
M.  de  Falloux,  to  whom  for  many  years  she  had  been 
the  dearest  of  friends  and  spiritual  mothers — for  there 
are  affinities  of  the  soul  more  sacred  than  natural  ties 
— in  his  memoirs,  gives  a  touching  account  of  her  last 
hours. 

A  profound  sorrow  pervaded  a  large  circle  of  friends 
— rich  and  poor  alike, — when  it  was  known  that  this 
soul,  so  long  ripe  for  the  celestial  country,  had  ceased  to 
dwell  among  men. 

It  had  long  been  known  among  the  intimate  friends 
of  Madame  Swetchine  that  evenings,  after  leaving  the 
salon,  it  was  her  habit  to  note  down  her  thoughts.  An 
almost  unanimous  demand  arose  for  their  publication. 
She  had  placed  her  papers  in  the  hands  of  M.  de  Falloux, 
and  upon  him  devolved  the  pious  task  of  presenting 


48  LIFE  rORTHAITS. 

them  to  the  world.  But  would  the  thoughts  which  had 
seemed  so  marvellous  and  beautiful  in  that  amiable  clalre- 
obscurcy  where  they  had  met  the  eyes  only  of  a  few  par- 
tial friends,  bear  the  clear  sunlight  and  the  open  air  ? 
The  test  was  dangerous,  but  it  has  been  triumphantly 
borne.  Madame  Swetchine's  two  volumes,  "  Thoughts"'' 
and  "  Airelles,"  will  henceforth  have  a  place  in  the  front 
rank  of  our  moralists,  among  the  purest  classics  of  spirit- 
ual Christianity.  An  admirable  selection  has  also  been 
made  from  her  letters.  The  Swetchine  literature, 
which  has  had  a  wide  vogue  in  France,  is,  through  admi- 
rable translations,  becoming  known  and  admired  where- 
ever  the  English  tongue  is  spoken. 

Excepting  the  "Airelles,"  none  of  Madame  Swet- 
chine's writings  were  designed  for  publication — these 
only  were  copied  by  her  own  hand.  The  others,  jotted 
down  at  different  times,  without  any  fixed  plan,  and 
often  written  in  pencil,  were  far  from  being  finished  ac- 
cording to  the  author's  ideas.  But  to  justify  the  par- 
tiality of  Madame  Swetchine's  friends  and  admirers,  in 
giving  her  Avritings  to  the  public,  we  have  only  to  quote 
from  them.  Opening  the  volume  entitled  Pensees 
(Thoughts),  these  are  the  first  words  that  meet  our  eye : 

"  I  love  God  as  if  He  alone  were  the  universe.  I  pity 
the  human  race  as  if  there  were  no  God.  There  is  an 
abyss  between  these  two  extremes  which  is  bridged  by 
our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ. 

"  Go  always  beyond  designated  duties,  and  remain 
"within  permitted  pleasures. 

"  Upon  the  whole,  there  is  in  life  only  what  we  put 
there. 

"  The  solemn^  wonderful,  majestic  ocean !  It  exalts 
onl}'"  to  crush  me  under  a  sense  of  its  grandeur — ^liound- 
less,  everlasting,  pitiless  of  my  insignificance.     Wherein 


MADAME  SWETCHINE;  49 

does  it  differ  from  me?  In  immensity  of  breadth  and 
depth/  What  does  it  give  me?  A  sense  of  infinity  and 
of  the  abyss  which  divides  me  from  it.  The  ocean,  in 
its  might  and  unresting  immutability,  in  its  proportions, 
which  transcend  the  boldest  flights  of  thought,  is  God 
— but  God  without  his  Christ. 

"  I  love  knowledge ;  I  love  intellect ;  I  love  faith ; — 
simple  faith  yet  more.  I  love  God's  shadow  better  than 
man's  light. 

"  There  can  be  no  little  things  in  this  world,  seeing 
that  God  mingles  in  all. 

"My  experience  is,  that  Christianity  dispels  more 
mystery  than  it  involves.  With  Christianity,  it  is  twi- 
light in  the  world ;  without  it,  night.  Christianity  does 
not  finish  the  statue — that  is  heaven's  work ;  but  it 
'  rough-hews '  all  things — truth,  the  mind,  the  soul. 

"The  root  of  sanctity  is  sanity.  A  man  must  be 
healthy  before  he  can  be  holy.  We  bathe  the  body  first, 
and  then  we  perfume. 

"  The  depths  of  the  soul  are  a  labyrinth,  and  dark 
without  the  torch  of  religion.  Left  to  ourselves,  we  are 
like  subterranean  waters, — we  reflect  only  the  gloomy 
vault  of  human  destiny. 

"  The  best  of  lessons  for  many  good  people  would  be 
to  listen  at  a  key-hole.  'Tis  a  pity  for  such  that  the 
practice  is  dishonorable. 

"  Let  my  terrace  face  the  East !  There  is  a  mysterious 
affinity  between  this  fancy  of  mine  and  my  decided 
taste  for  the  dawn  of  excellent  things.  Of  all  rising 
suns,  I  except  only  that  of  prosperity ;  but  T  bow  like  a 
true  courtier  before  the  earliest  rays  of  piety,  virtue 
and  talent." 

These  perhaps  are  not  the  best  of  the  "Thoughts," 
but  they  are  all  that  space  allows  us  to  quote.    We  pass 


60  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

on  to  the  "  Airelles," — a  pame  felicitously  chosen  by 
Madame  Swetchine.  The  Airclle  is  a  flower,  whose  fruit 
in  Russia  ripens  in  October,  but  grows  sweet  only  by  lying 
under  the  winter  snow.  "  These  thoughts,  too,"  says 
their  author,  "  have  ripened  under  the  snows,  and  taken 
their  hue,  like  the  red  berry  of  the  Airelle,  from  the  fires 
of  the  interior  sun." 

"  Let  our  lives  be  pure  as  snow-fields,  where  our  foot- 
steps leave  a  mark  but  not  a  stain. 

"  To  reveal  imprudently  the  spot  where  we  are  most 
vulnerable,  is  to  invite  a  blow.  The  demi-God,  Achilles, 
admitted  no  one  to  his  confidence. 

"  It  w^ould  seem  that  by  our  sorrows  only  we 
are  called  to  a  knowledge  of  the  Infinite.  Are  we 
happy  ?  The  limits  of  life  constrain  us  on  every 
side. 

"  He  who  has  ceased  to  enjoy  his  friend's  superiority, 
has  ceased  to  love  him. 

"  To  have  ideas  is  to  gather  them  into  flowers.  To 
think  is  to  weave  tliem  into  garlands. 

"  Since  there  must  be  chimeras,  why  is  not  perfection 
the  chimera  of  all  men  ? 

"*  Woman  is  in  some  sort  divine,'  said  the  ancient 
German.  'Woman,'  says  the  follower  of  Mahomet,  'is 
an  amiable  creature,  who  only  needs  a  cage.'  '  Woman,* 
says  the  European,  '  is  a  being  nearly  our  equal  in 
intelligence,  and  perhaps  our  superior  in  fidelity.'  Every- 
where something  detracted  from  our  dignity  !  It  is 
very  like  the  history  of  the  dog  ! — a  god  in  one  country  ; 
muzzled  or  imprisoned  in  many  others;  and. sometimes, 
'  the  best  friend  of  his  master. ' 

"Parodies  on  things  I  love,  either  disgust  me,  or  trouble 
my  conscience.  Nothing  that  has  touched  the  heart 
ought  ever  to  be  profaned. 


MADAilE  SWETCIIINE.  51 

"  Strength  alone  knows  conflict.  Weakness  is  below 
even  defeat,  and  is  born  vanquished. 

"  It  is  only  in  heaven  that  angels  have  as  much  ability 
a9  demons. 

"  Travel  is  the  serious  part  of  frivolous  lives,  and  the 
frivolous  part  of  serious  ones. 

"  We  are  rich  only  through  what  we  give,  and  poor  only 
through  what  we  refuse. 

"  No  two  persons  ever  read  the  same  book  or  saw  the 
same  picture. 

"  Men  are  always  evoking  justice,  audit  is  justice  which 
should  make  them  tremble. 

"27ie  Firmament. — Is  it  not  amid  the  rigors  of  Avinler 
that  the  celestial  vault  impresses  us  most  deeply  as  the 
region  of  the  immutable  and  the  eternal  ?  Type  of  the 
world  of  souls  ! — there  is  no  trace  of  time  in  that  king- 
dom of  space.  There  is  beauty  without  spot  or  wrinkle 
— immortal  youth.  Like  the  soul,  the  sky  has  dates,  but 
not  age.  Like  the  soul,  it  has  no  night,  but  changes  its 
lights  as  the  soul  varies  in  brightness.  By  a  sublime 
immunity,  the  heaven,  although  created,  knows  neither 
change  nor  decay.  The  mighty  immobility  of  its  planets, 
or  their  triumphal  march  beneath  the  watchful  gaze  of 
the  Most  High,  seem  to  image  the  impassibility  of  the 
saints,  and  their  swift,  irresistible  zeal.  The  vault  of 
heaven,  resplendent  and  gloriously  arranged,  seems  like 
the  heart  of  the  good  man,  to  celebrate  a  perpetual 
feast — the  feast  of  the  promised  restoration." 

No  one  has  written  so  tenderly  and  beautifully  of  Old 
Age  as  Madame  Swetchine.  With  her,  this  season 
when  the  night-shadows  fall  and  envelop  the  traveller, 
is  only  the  presage  of  a  never-ending  and  celestial  day. 
She  feels  that  with  the  good,  the  sunset  rays  may  be 
brightest,  and  that  at  eventide  it  may  be  light. 


52  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

We  have  read  Cicero's  De  Seneetute^  so  imprej^nated 
with  Platonic  philosophy,  where  the  aging  man  consoles 
himself  for  growing  old  by  growing  eloquent,  as  it  is 
said  he  consoled  himself  for  the  death  of  his  daughter 
Tullia  by  dreaming  of  the  beautiful  phrases  with  wliich 
sorrow  would  inspire  him.  We  recall  those  melancholy 
words  of  Chateaubriand,  to  whom  old  age  was  so  full  of 
sadness :  "  Infancy  is  happy  only  because  it  knows 
nothing,  age  is  unhappy  only  because  it  knows  all ; 
happy  for  it  when  the  mysteries  of  life  end,  and  those 
of  death  begin." 

Eloquently  as  Cicero,  more  piously  and  hopefully 
than  Chateaubriand,  Madame  Swetchine  writes  upon 
this  subject  so  few  know  how  to  invest  with  any 
charm : 

"  The  old  man  is  the  pontiff  of  the  past ;  nor  does  this 
prevent  him  from  being  the  seer  of  the  future.  The 
clergyman  represents  the  priesthood  of  eternity ;  the 
old  man  that  of  time.  The  aged  are  Christ's  poor: 
their  wrinkles  are  their  rags  ;  they  warm  themselves  in 
the  sunbeams  ;  they  beg  their  daily  bread. 

"  Misfortune  discovers  to  youth  the  nothingness  of 
life ;  it  reveals  to  age  the  happiness  of  heaven. 

"  Like  the  cross  of  Calvary,  the  old  man  is  midway 
between  heaven  and  earth, — held  to  the  one  by  his 
duties,  to  the  other  by  his  hopes.  He  believes,  because 
he  has  proved  all  things,  and  only  the  truth  of  the 
gospel  has  remained  at  the  bottom  of  the  crucible. 

"Old  age  is  not  one  of  the  beauties  of  creation,  but  it 
is  one  of  its  harmonies.  Shadow  gives  light  its  worth  ; 
sternness  enhances  mildness  ;  solemnity,  splendor.  Dif- 
ferent flavors  give  zest  to  one  another. 

"'In  our  day,'  says  M^  de  Chateaubriand,  'people 
are  old,  but  they  are  no  longer  venerable.'     This  remark, 


MADAME  SWETCniNE.  63 

perhaps,  contains  the  whole  secret  of  the  slight  respect 
of  youth  for  age. 

"  Time  is  the  shower  of  Danae.   Each  drop  is  golden. 

"  Celebrated  prose-writers  preserve  their  superiority 
until  the  decline  of  life,  while  our  poets,  save  in 
cases  of  extraordinary  genius,  fall  with  the  winter. 
Thought  with  the  former  dwells  constantly  on  the  sober 
realities  of  the  Christian  life;  with  the  latter,  it  is  but 
a  pastime.  But  this'  playfulness  demands  a  sensuous 
rapture  of  which  the  old  have  ceased  to  be  capable  ;  and 
it  is  a  glorious  impotence  for  which  they  should  not 
grieve.  What  laments  over  bright  days  gone  we  find 
in  the  votaries  of  the  Muse  !  What  contempt  of  youth 
in  Bossuet !  The  great  bishop  dates  life  only  by  white 
hair.  Yet  the  true  poets,  like  the  great  artists,  have 
scarcely  any  childhood,  and  no  old  age. 

'• '  If  any  man  hear  my  voice,  and  open  the  door,  I  will 
come  in  and  sup  with  him  and  he  with  me.'  Happy 
old  age !  It  is  for  supper,  and  not  for  a  midday  feast, 
where  noise  and  tumult  reign  ;  it  is  to  sup  with  us  that 
our  Lord  will  come.  At  the  close  of  the  dull,  weary, 
toilsome  day  ;  at  the  hour  of  sweet,  long,  friendly  talks, 
when  intimacy  grows  deepest,  and  confidence  flows  with 
a  full  stream ;  at  night-fall,  when  hearts  approach  and 
mingle  and  think  of  naught  save  how  to  bless  and 
sanctify  the  sleep  which  is  to  follow.  T  collect  myself, 
O  my  God  !  at  the  close  of  life,  as  at  the  close  of  day, 
and  bring  to  thee  my  thoughts  and  my  love.  The  last 
thoughts  of  a  heart  that  loves  thee,  are  like  the  last, 
deepest,  ruddiest  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  Thou  hast 
willed,  O  my  God !  that  life  should  be  beautiful  even 
unto  the  end.  Make  me  to  grow  and  keep  me  green, 
and  climb  like  the  plant  which  lifts  its  head  to  thee  for 
the  last  time  before  it  drops  its  seed  and  dies. 


54  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

"  Nunc  dimittis.  Now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart 
in  peace,  O  Lord !  His  load  is  lightened.  The  weakest 
of  thy  angels  could  carry  it  under  his  wing.  His  swell- 
ing pride  is  humbled.  The  JEgo  has  lost  its  substance. 
The  world  has  withdrawn  its  stupid  favor.  The  weight 
of  sin  has  been  removed  by  forgiveness  and  tears ;  and 
beneath  thy  light  and  easy  yoke,  all  his  limbs  move 
freely." 

We  have  lingered  too  long  ov6r  these  beauties,  and 
new  beauties  invite  us  at  every  step.  "  Nowhere,  says  M. 
de  Falloux,  has  that  incomparable  soul  revealed  itself 
more  fully  than  in  her  treatise  ui^on  '  Resignation.' 
The  finest  observation  of  earthly  things,  here  glows 
side  by  side  with  the  anticipated  peace  of  heaven,  and 
strokes  worthy  of  La  Bruyere  abound,  together  with 
flights  worthy  of  St.  Augustine." 

We  have  space  for  only  a  few  passages,  and  these 
almost  the  concluding  ones  : 

"  Suffering  is  profitable  unto  all  things.  Suffering 
teaches  us  how  to  suffer,  to  live  and  to  die.  Even  if  we 
could  enter  heaven  by  any  other  door  than  that  of 
tribulation,  our  very  love  for  God  should  deprive  us  of 
all  thought  or  desire  for  so  doing ;  for  it  is  thus  that 
our  divine  Master,  and,  after  him,  all  the  Saints,  have 
entered,  bearing  the  cross  and  treading  a  way  strewn 
with  thorns. 

"  Apart  from  grace,  nothing  save  suffering  and  its 
mighty  plenitude,  can  fill  the  abyss  between  the  God- 
man  and  his  imitators.  It  is  through  suffering  that  God 
is  most  human.  It  is  through  suffering  that  man  comes 
nearest  to  God. 

"  Do  you  not  feel "  said  Saint  Madelaine,  "  the  infinite 
sweetness  that  is  contained  in  those  dear  words,  '  thj; 

DIVINE  WILL  ?  ' 


MADAME  SWETCHIN'E.  55 

"  How  easy  it  is  to  understand  that  holy  bishop,  y,  ho 
forgetting  or  abdicating  his  own  individuality,  desired  . 
men  to  call  him  by  no  other  name  than  this,  Quid  Beus 
vult.  Is  there  in  all  the  world,  a  tenderer  prayer,  or  one 
more  impressed  with  divine  sympathy  than  this  : — '  My 
Father,  thy  will  be  done '  ?  A  prayer  which  God  himself 
has  taught  us,  a  talisman  which  enables  us  to  banish  his 
justice  and  summon  his  love.  Thi/  will  be  done!  Inces- 
sant miracle  of  a  God  who  deigns  to  will,  and  a  rebel- 
lious creature  rising  to  the  height  of  obedience !  A 
sovereign  prayer  in  its  seeming  self-annihilation.  .  .  . 
Will  of  my  God  be  mine,  and  continue  till  my  latest 
breath  to  initiate  me  into  the  secret  of  thy  growing 
delights." 

We  close  the  book  reluctantly.  It  is  a  casket  of 
gems,  'from  which  we  have  perhaps  not  chosen  the 
brightest.  Let  those  who  would  know  more  of  this 
tender,  yet  profound  moralist,  open  the  casket  anew. 


MADAME  DE  GIRARDIN.* 

(Delphlne  Gay.) 

Among  the  beautiful,  witty  and  intellectual  women  who 
have  graced  the  salons  of  Paris,  none  have  been  better 
known  or  more  admired  than  Madame  de  Girardin.  By 
turns  a  Muse,  a  journalist,  and  the  creatrice  of  a  new 
order,  this  charming  Delphine  made  her  salon  a  sanc- 
tuary of  the  graces,  the  favorite  resort  of  the  most  re- 
nowned men  and  women  of  her  day. 

Lamartine  has  related  the  circumstances  of  his  first 
meeting  with  Delphine  Gay.  It  was  in  182o,  at  Terni, 
near  the  falls  of  Velino,  that  his  eyes  first  rested  upon 
that  lovely  apparition,  destined  never  more  to  fade  from 
his  remembrance.  "  Standing  like  a  sybil  before  the 
foaming  cascade,"  writes  he,  '"  she  was  intoxicating  her- 
self with  the  thunder,  the  vertigo  and  the  suicide  of  the 
waters."  The  poet  gazed  spell-bound  upon  the  radiant 
vision,  the  tall,  supple  form  with  nymph-like  bearing,  the 
perfect  features,  the  classic  head,  crowned  with  its  au- 
reole of  golden  hair.  He  was  moved  by  the  deep,  liquid 
accents  of  the  young  girl's  voice,  and  he  loved  her ;  but 
it  was  with  a  love  such  as  Plato  felt  "  for  the  beautiful, 
which  is  only  the  outward  manifestation  of  the  good." 

Delphine  was  at  this  time  only  twenty-one  years  old, 
but  her  renown  had  already  filled  the  salons  of  Paris. 

*  Madame  de  jUirardin. — Bj  Iinbert  Saint-Amand,  Paris,  1875. 


MADAME  DE  GIRARDIN.  57 

From  earliest  childhood  she  had  been  wont  to  think  and 
Lo  speak  in  verse.  There  was  imagery  in  her  eye,  har- 
mony in  her  ear,  poetic  passion  swayed  her  heart  and 
soul.  Her  strophes  were  like  the  carol  of  a  bird  pour- 
ing forth  its  artless  joy  in  song.  Her  eulogy  upon  the 
happiness  of  being  beautiful,  refers  to  this  time,  that 
bright,  matutinal  season,  to  which  remembrance  car- 
ried her  back  when  several  years  later,  she  wrote : — 

Mon  front  etait  sijier  de  sa  couronne  blonde. 
Anneaux  d'or  et  d'argent  tant  defois  caresses! 
Et  j'avais  tant  d'espoir  quand  fentrais  dans  le  monde 
Orgueilletise,  et  les  yeux  baiss€s.* 

When  less  than  twenty,  Delphine  began  her  literary 
career  by  the  publication  of  her  "  Poetic  Essays."  She 
dedicated  the  book  to  Chateaubriand,  and  in  return  was 
honored  with  a  most  flattering  letter  from  him.  Ten 
years  later,  the  great  author  of  "  The  Genius  of  Chris- 
tianity" wrote  to  Delphine,  now  become  Madame  de 
Girardin,  congratulating  her  upon  her  poem  "  Napoline," 
a  poem  which  Sainte-Beuve  says  has  not  been  sufficiently 
understood  or  admired. 

Delphine  had  a  wonderful  gift  for  recitation.  This 
gift  had  been  carefully  cultivated,  and  was  a  source  of 
exquisite  delight  to  the  literary  and  artistic  circles  of  the 
Restoration.  In  the  salons  of  Madame  R<5camier  and 
the  Duchess  de  Duras,  at  the  matinees  of  the  Duchess 
de  Maille,  at  chateau  Lormois,  she  entranced  all  ears  and 
hearts.  When  in  her  rich,  musical  voice,  thrilled  by  a 
deep  poetic  inspiration,  she  recited  some  beautiful  poem, 
a  rapt,  admiring  silence  would  attest  the  delight  of  all 

*  "  My  foreliead  was  so  proud  of  its  blonde  crown, 

Rings  of  gold  and  silver  so  many  times  caressed  ! 
And  I  had  so  much  hope  when  I  entered  tlie  world. 
Confident  and  with  downcast  eyes." 
3* 


58  LIFE  POKTRAITS. 

who  listened ;  for  the  moment,  every  political  and  social 
dissonance  was  hushed,  and  this  young  Muse  of  her 
country,  as  they  loved  to  call  her,  held  all  under  her 
magic  sway. 

"To  my  mind,"  writes  Lamartine,  "  Delphine  had  but 
one  fault ;  she  laughed  too  much."  Beautiful  defect  of 
youth,  ignorant  of  the  sorrows  after  life  has  in  store  I 
Sixteen  years  later,  the  great  poet  wrote  to  the  once 
light-hearted  young  gM,  "  Gayety  is  amusing,  but  at  bot- 
tom, it  is  only  a  pretty  grimace.  What  is  there  gay 
either  in  heaven  or  on  earth  ?  Happiness  itself  when 
complete  is  sad,  for  the  infinite  is  sublime,  and  the  sub- 
lime is  not  gay." 

Delphine  and  her  mother  had  made  a  little  sanctuary 
of  their  modest  suite  of  rooms  in  the  Rue  de  Choiseul. 
To  their  salon  came  the  nobility  of  birth  only  to  become 
more  ennobled  through  association  with  the  nobility  of 
nature.  This  was  the  salon  of  friendship  rather  than  of 
celebrity ;  it  was  distinguished  by  that  entire  freedom 
from  useless  social  forms  which  should  ever  reign  in  the 
republic  of  talent.  This  mother  and  daughter,  though 
poor,,  could  surround  themselves  with  attractions  such 
as  gold  cannot  buy.  Intellectually,  both  were  alike 
gifted,  but  the  mother  who  had  long  reigned  a  queen  of 
society,  was  now  only  too  glad  to  place  the  crown  she 
had  worn  so  gracefully,  upon  the  younger,  fairer  brow 
of  the  daughter  she  adored. 

Thdophile  Gautier  has  described  the  impression  the 
mere  sight  of  Delphine  produced  upon  a  group  of  poets, 
sculptors  and  painters,  when  she  appeared  in  her  box  at 
the  Opdra  Fran^ais,  upon  the  evening  of  the  first  rep- 
resentation of  Hernani,  February  20th,  1830. 

When  they  perceived  that  inspired  head,  those  beam- 
ing  eyes,  those  magnificent  blonde  locks,  that  white  robe 


MADAME  DE  GIKARDIN.  59 

*  with  the  blue  sash  rendered  celebrated  in  Hersent'a 
portrait  of  Delphine,  a  triple  salvo  of  cheers  broke  forth. 
Tliis  young  woman's  appearance  at  the  theatres,  tho 
fetes,  the  academies,  was  sure  to  be  greeted  by  a  low 
murmur  of  admiration.  The  young  men  were  enraptured 
with  her  grace  and  beauty,  the  old  men  with  her  talent. 

"  Who  will  have  the  honor  of  marrying  this  beautiful 
Delphine  ?  "  had  been  a  question  often  asked,  but  it 
was  not  speedily  answered.  One  evening  at  the  salon 
of  the  Rue  de  Choiseul,  appeared  a  young  man,  small  in 
stature,  but  with  the  massive  head  and  powerful  features 
so  familiar  to  all  in  busts  of  the  first  Napoleon.  The  re- 
semblance even  then  when  he  who  bore  it  was  but 
twenty-nine  years  of  age,  excited  much  remark ;  it  is 
still  more  striking  to-day,  and  is  said  to  be  a  source  of 
pride  to  a  certain  world-renowned  and  veteran  journal- 
ist, now  in  his  seventy-third. year. 

This  quiet,  unassuming  stranger,  unknown  to  all,  and 
receiving  little  attention  from  any  but  the  ladies  of  the 
house,  was  M.  Emile  de  Girardin.  June  1st,  1830,  he 
married  Delphine  Gay,  then  twenty-seven  years  old,  and 
in  the  full  lustre  of  her  beauty  and  renown.  It  required 
no  small  merit,  no  small  self-confidence  in  so  young  a  man 
to  unite  his  destiny  with  that  of  a  woman  so  celebrated. 
Such  merit,  such  self-confidence  M.  de  Girardin  possessed. 
A  man  of  brilliant  talent  and  unbounded  ambition,  he 
never,  in  this  union,  sank  to  the  level  of  prince-consort ; 
he  was  never  known  to  the  world  as  "  Delphine  Gay's 
husband."'  His  wife  became  his  associate  upon  La 
Presse,  the  leading  Parisian  journal  of  that  day,  and  the 
most  brilliant  among  its  staff  of  writers.  This  husband 
and  wife  gloried  each  in  the  talent  of  the  other,  and  their 
marriage  resting  upon  a  sure  foundation  of  mutual  tastes 
and  sympathies,  and  consecrated  by  true  devotion,  was 


60  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

one  of  almost  unalloyed  happiness.  Madame  de  Girardin, 
while  reigning  undisputed  queen  of  society,  was  also  the 
centre  of  a  refined,  beautiful  home.  Exact  in  the  2)er- 
formance  of  every  wifely  and  domestic  duty,  "  the  heart 
of  her  husband  did  safely  trust  in  her." 

She  felt  proud  of  the  position  her  own  genius  and  ac- 
complishments had  won,  and  she  avowed  this  pride  with 
a  noble  frankness.  In  one  of  her  Parisian  Letters  to  La 
JPresse^  she  writes : 

"  For  ourself  we  have  received  only  one  pale  beam 
in  the  unjust  distribution  of  immortal  flame ;  but  this 
faint  gleam,  this  trembling  ray,  we  would  not  exchange 
for  the  splendors  of  the  most  illustrious  fortune  and  the 
highest  rank.  At  the  banquet  of  Renown,  we  have 
won  only  a  modest  place,  but  we  find  that  we  have  not 
purchased  it  too  dear  with  the  irony  of  fools  and  the 
ennuis  of  poverty." 

Madame  de  Girardin's  first  salon,  in  the  Rue  Lafitte,  was 
hung  in  sea-green  reps,  with  sea-green  velvet  bands  of  a 
deeper  shade,  a  tint  admirably  suited  to  her  clear  blonde 
complexion.  Mornings,  she  wrote  in  an  ample  white 
dressing-gown,  whose  folds  fell  around  her  like  a  Greek 
chlamys,  her  lovely  hair  rippling  in  golden  waves  around 
her  shoulders.  Evenings,  her  favorite  dress  was  a  trail- 
ing black  velvet  robe,  finely  setting  forth  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  arms  and  shoulders  that  Phidias  would 
have  loved  to  model. 

In  the  literary  tournaments  of  her  day,  Madame  de 
Girardin  appeared  a  warlike  Amazon,  armed  and  hel- 
meted ;  and  yet  she  was  a  woman  in  the  best  and  noblest 
meaning  of  the  word — a  woman  in  goodness,  in  devotion, 
in  tenderness,  in  the  vivacity  of  her  impressions,  the  sin- 
cerity of  her  enthusiasms,  in  the  charm,  of  her  personal 
and  intellectual  beauty. 


MADAME  DE  GIRARDIN.  61 

Her  conversation,  a  series  of  dazzling  surpiiaes  in 
which  her  marvellous  imagination  had  full  play,  was 
varied  as  nature  itself.  She  amused,  she  fascinated,  she 
moved  you  to  tears  she  sparkled  with  wit,  she  glowed 
with  poetic  ardor ;  she  was  at  the  same  time  gay  anr" 
melancholy,  sarcastic  and  tender.  If  she  took  it  upon 
herself  to  defend  the  reputation  of  a  friend,  she  became 
eloquent  as  Demosthenes.  She  had  at  her  command 
inimitable  accents.  She  was  above  so  low  a  passion  as 
envy,  and  it  was  her  delight  to  assist  true  genius  in  its 
upward  struggles.  More  than  any  person  living,  she 
possessed  the  art  of  making  the  success  of  a  worthy 
literary  or  artistic  work. 

None  better  than  she  knew  how  to  follow  that  pre- 
cept of  Boileau : 

Passer  du  grave  au  doux,  du  plaisant  au  s^v^re. 

She  had  the  gift  of  irony,  but  underlying  it  was  an 
enthusiasm  for  the  good  and  true,  a  horror  of  deformity, 
a  love  for  the  beautiful.  With  the  gift  of  criticism,  she 
possessed  a  higher  faculty,  the  gift  of  admiration.  She 
lo\"ed  to  praise  far  better  than  to  censure.  A  woman  of 
so  much  wit  must  needs  have  possessed  a  most  kindly 
nature  not  to  resemble  her  own  Napoline, 

"  Whose  caustic  wit  avenged  her  suffering  heart." 

In  1841,  Madame  de  Girardin  was  at  the  apogee  of  her 
beauty,  her  genius  and  her  celebrity.  Her  writings 
had  made  the  tour  of  France,  of  Europe  and  the  world. 
She  distributed  renowns  as  a  sovereign  distributes  orders 
and  dignities.  Artists  and  authors  sought  her  suffrages 
and  gloried  in  her  words  of  praise.  Among  her  inti- 
mate friends  and  correspondents,  she  numbered  the 
most  celebrated  personages  of  her  day,  all  of  wliora 
brousrht  her  their  common  tribute  of  admiration  and 


62  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

respect,  recognizing  her  as  a  woman  of  the  highest 
elevation  of  soul,  with  a  noble  intellect,  and  a  still  more 
noble  heart. 

Madame  de  Girardin  was  a  great  lady  in  the  best  ac- 
ceptation of  that  word.  Habituated  from  childhood  to 
the  most  aristocratic  salons,  received  with  the  warmest 
cordiality  by  the  high  noblesse  of  Paris,  educated  in  the 
school  of  her  mother,  a  woman  of  the  best  society,  an  ex- 
quisite refin  ement  characterizedher  every  word  and  action. 

Writing  for  her  husband's  journal  under  the  signa- 
ture of  the  Viscount  de  Launy,  in  her  "  Parisian  Letters  " 
and  "  Couriers  de  Paris,"  she  essayed  all  sorts  of  topics, 
and  was  known  far  and  near  as  the  most  able  and  bril- 
liant of  its  contributors.  Having  won  many  laurels  as 
poet,  romancer  and  journalist,  she  at  length  turned  her 
attention  to  the  drama,  her  first  venture  being  a  comedy 
in  five  acts,  entitled  "The  Journalist's  School."  It  met 
a  favorable  reception  at  the  Fran^ais,  but  the  censor 
forbade  its  further  representation.  "  What  matters  the 
censor  ?  "  wrote  Lamartine.  "  The  world  is  on  your 
side,  and  the  world  is  greatest." 

In  1843,  a  tragedy  in  three  acts  appeared  from  her 
pen,  but  it  was  doomed  to  have  only  a  literary  success. 
It  was  Mile.  Rachel's  first  impersonation. 

During  the  summer  of  1846,  Madame  de  Girardin  went 
to  pass  a  few  days  with  M.  and  Mme.  de  Lamartine  at 
Saint  Point.     The  poet  thus  writes  of  that  sojourn : 

"  She  came  to  pass  the  latter  days  of  summer  at  our 
solitude  in  the  midst  of  the  Saint  Point  heaths.  She 
was  then  writing  her  beautiful  tragedy  of  Cleopatra, 
whose  style  has  the  solidity  and  the  polish  of  marble.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  inspiration  of  her  face  and  the 
emotion  of  her  voice  when  she  read  to  us  by  day  what 
she  had  composed  by  night.     She  usually  read  mornings 


MADAME  DE  GIRARDIN.  63 

in  the  shadow  of  a  mossy  roof,  covering  an  orchard  wall, 
in  a  declivity,  where  the  glance  roved  over  a  valley  of 
the  Tempd,  with  sombre  mountains  in  the  distance.  No 
sound  save  the  murmurs  of  nature  broke  the  hush  of 
this  sequestered  spot,  and  Delphine's  beautiful  verses 
lulled  to  silence  all  echoes  from  without." 

In  November,  1847,  "  Cleopatra  *'  appeared,  and  was  a 
double  triumph  for  Madame  de  Girardin  and  Mile. 
Rachel,  her  admirable  interpreter. 

In  1853,  Madame  de  Girardin  gave  the  world  two 
comedies,  "The  Husband's  Fault,"  and  "Lady  Tar- 
tuffe."  The  same  year  she  published  an  exquisite  ro- 
mance, entitled  "  Marguerite,  or  Two  Loves,"  and  also 
one  of  her  best  novels,  "  We  Must  not  Jest  with  Sor- 
row." Her  talent  had  grown  year  by  year,  and  many 
regard  "  Marguerite  "  as  her  best  work. 

In  1854  appeared  her  drama  "Joy  Brings  Fear,"  and 
a  very  laughable  farce, "  The  Astrologer's  Hat." 

Political  dissensions,  without  detracting  from  the 
friendship  of  Lamartine  and  Madame  de  Girardin,  had 
rendered  their  relations  more  distant.  The  great  poet 
had  cherished  the  illusion  that  he  might  some  day  be- 
come president  of  the  Republic.  He  must  have  felt 
deeply  aggrieved  that  the  lady  who  had  been  his  warmest 
admirer  and  most  valiant  champion  when  the  darts  of 
envy  and  calumny  fell  thickest  about  liim,  shared 
the  ardor  of  her  husband  for  Louis  Napoleon.  But  La- 
martine still  rGniaiiied  one  of  the  most  welcome  visitors 
at  Madame  de  Girardin's  salon.  Here,  despite  his  tempo- 
rary fall,  the  accustomed  incense  was  burned  to  him  ; 
here  he  burned  incense  to  himself.  The  Girardins  now 
dwelt  in  that  house  upon  the  Rue  Chaillot  which  was 
Madame's  last  residence.  This  house,  built  after  the 
model  of  the  Erectheum  of  Athens,  surrounded  by  a 


64  LIFE  rORTKAlTS. 

grassy  lawn,  with  its  flowers  and  fountains,  its  tiifVd 
chestnut  trees  half  veiling  the  front  facing  the  Chamjjs- 
Elys^es,  well  suited  the  refined,  poetic  woman  her  contem- 
poraries so  well  loved  to  call  the  tenth  Muse.  When 
its  presiding  deity  was  no  more,  Theophile  Gautier 
coidd  never,  without  tears,  pass  this  house  with  the 
white  columns. 

"  How  many  times,"  writes  he,  "  have  I  returned  at 
two  or  three  o'clock  of  the  morning  with  Victor  Hugo, 
and  other  friends,  in  moonlight  or  in  rain,  from  this 
temple,  where  dwelt  an  Apolline  no  less  beautiful  than 
the  antique  Apollo !  Free,  confidential,  delicious  even- 
ings, sparkling  conversations,  dialogues  between  genius 
and  beauty,  Platonian  banquets — ye  should  be  described 
with  a  pen  of  gold !  " 

And  Alexander  Dumas  has  thus  written :  "  There  we 
passed  many  pure,  sweet,  joyous  hours,  countless  and 
evanescent.  So  swiftly  did  they  fly  that  two  o'clock  of 
the  morning  would  strike  ere  we  were  aware.  Charm- 
ing spirit  that  hovered  over  us,  making  these  hours  so 
beauteous  and  so  fleet !  Gentle  raillery,  animated  re- 
cital, adorable  grace,  fine  repartee,  sainted  goodness  ! 
Woman,  sister,  friend.  Finally  we  would  tear  ourselves 
aAvay  to  return  homeward  through  the  long,  deserted 
avenues,  saying  of  you,  be  sure,  dear  friend,  words  such 
as  courtiers  never  said  of  any  queen." 

In  1855,  while  meditating  new  and  greater .  literary 
works,  Madame  de  Girardin  was  arrested  midway  in  her 
career.  Her  mind  still  retained  its  youthful  freshness, 
the  splendor  of  her  noon  had  far  outshone  the  promise 
of  her  dawn  ;  fame,  friends,  fortune,  all  were  hers,  when 
she  perceived  the  first  insidious  approaches  of  that  mal- 
ady which  had  proved  fatal  to  Napoleon  I. — cancer  in 
the  stomach.  Thdophile  Gautier  thus  describes  her  as 
the  supreme  hour  drew  near: 


MADAME  DE  GIRAEDIN.  65 

"  Her  beauty  had  assumed  a  character  of  grandeur 
and  of  singular  melancholy.  Her  idealized  featui-es, 
the  indolent  languor  of  her  poses,  did  not  betray  the 
dumb  ravages  of  a  mortal  disease.  Half  reclining  upon 
a  divan,  her  feet  covered  with  a  red-and-white  afghan,  she 
had  more  the  air  of  a  convalescent  than  of  an  invalid." 

Her  friends  would  not  believe  in  the  gravity  of  her 
disease.  They  were  dreaming  of  a  serene,  majestic  old 
age  for  her,  full  of  days,  labors  and  honors.  Time,  they 
thought,  would  surely  need  many  years  in  which  to 
blanch  to  silver  bands  the  long  spirals  of  golden  hair 
enframing  that  beautiful  face,  so  well  known'  through 
the  pencil  and  the  burin. 

Now  and  then,  triumphing  over  her  cruel  sufferings, 
she  would  resume  the  pursuits  that  had  so  adorned  her 
life.  M^ry  had  described  one  of  the  last  dinners  at 
which  she  played  her  once  so  successful  role  of  hostess. 

"  Her  noble  face  was  somewhat  emaciated,  and  her 
large  blue  eyes  glowed  with  the  fire  of  fever.  She  ate 
nothing,  and  she  had  such  a  transport  of  inspiration  as 
none  of  us  had  ever  seen  or  shall  see  or  hear  again.  She 
would  pass  from  one  subject  to  another,  leaving  a  lum- 
inous track  upon  all.  She  was  by  turns  profound, 
brilliant  and  poetic,  and  we  all  listened  in  rapt  admira- 
tion. When  we  rose  from  the  table,  George  Sand,  who 
had  remained  silent  during  the  marvellous  improvisation, 
exclaimed,  "  How  beautiful  and  how  witty  she  is !  " 

But  after  these  fevered  flashes  of  inspiration,  the  gift- 
ed invalid  would  relapse  into  melancholy.  She  felt  the 
loss  of  that  olden  public,  amorous  of  art,  intoxicated 
with  romance  and  poetry,  in  whose  warm  sympathy  the 
first  flowers  of  her  genius  had  blossomed.  She  had 
little  confidence  in  this  new  race, — prosaic,  calculating, 
hlasSy — which  had  neither  love  nor  admiration  nor  faith 


66  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

nor  hope.  She  began  to  feel  herself  an  exile  in  a  coun- 
tiy  where  literature  and  art  had  become  vulgarized. 
Her  works  were  still  in  vogue ;  they  laughed  at  her 
comedies,  they  wept  at  her  tragedies.  But  the  new 
times  could  never  be  to  her  beautiful  as  the  old.  Tha- 
ophile  Gautier,  over  whose  last  days  a  like  shadow  was 
ere  long  to  fall,  thus  describes  the  state  of  Madame  do 
Girardin's  mind  : 

"  Although  she  was  tenderly  devoted  to  her  husband, 
whose  conflicts  she  had  espoused,  although  fame,  suc- 
cess, fortune,  all  that  can  make  mortals  in  love  with 
life,  had  come  at  her  desire,  although  admiring,  stead- 
fast friends  were  around  her,  she  seemed  to  cherish  a 
secret  longing  to  have  done  with  all.  The  times  did 
not  please  her,  she  felt  that  the  level  of  souls  was  lower- 
ed, and  she  already  sought  presages  from  the  other 
world.  Like  Leopardo,  the  Italian  poet,  to  whom  Mus- 
set  has  addressed  some  beautiful  verses,  she  dreamed  of 
the  charm  of  death.  When  the  funereal  angel  at  length 
came  for  her,  she  had  long  awaited  him.  She  poured 
out  her  sorrows,  her  aspirations,  in  delicious  reveries, 
and  composed  her  "  Song  of  the  Night,"  so  full  of  ten- 
derest  poetic  beauty." 

The  opening  stanza  of  this  '  Song '  is  as  follows  : 

Void  Vheure  mi  tomlip.  le  voile. 

Qui  le  jour  cache  mes  ennuis ; 
Mon  coeitr  a  la  premiere  etoile 

S'ouvre  comme  wie  Jleur  ties  nuits.* 


*"  Beliold  the  liour  when  falls  the  veil 

Tliat  hides  my  sorrows  from  the  light, 
My  heart,  when  morn's  first  star  I  hail, 
Opes  like  a  flower  that  blooms  by  night" 


MADAME  DE  GIRARDIN.  67 

Intellect  and  melancholy  are  sisters,  and  the  lives  of 
these  favored  ones  of  genius  are  full  of  sadness.  With, 
a  glance  deeper,  than  that  of  the  common  throng,  they 
gaze  into  the  abyss  of  life,  shuddering  alike  at  sight  of 
a  cradle  or  a  tomb.  They  realize  that  no  finite  mind 
can  solve  the  prol)lem  of  human  destiny,  that  life  is 
unsatisfying,  and  death  mysterious  as  terrible.  And 
when,  seeking  some  consolation,  plucking  some  flower 
along  the  route,  yielding  to  the  spell  of  some  momentary 
delight,  they  pause  suddenly,  and  cry  out  .with  Alfred 
de  Musset : 

Je  ne  puis,  malgr^  moi,  rinflni  me  tourmente  ! 

It  is  a  cry  wrung  from  the  depths  of  their  inmost  con- 
sciousness. 

And  she,  too,  was  sad,  this  adorable  Madame  de  Girar- 
din,  she  who  had  enjoyed  so  marvellous  a  dawn,  so 
magnificent  a  day  ;  she  who,  like  the  goddesses  of  old, 
had  walked  in  a  luminous  path,  who  had  known  all 
success,  all  splendor,  all  renown. 

On  the  29th  day  of  June,  1855,  she  rendered  her  soul 
to  God.  Gentle  and  courageous  with  death  as  she  had 
been  with  life,  her  last  hours  were  full  of  holy  joy  and 
peace. 

In  the  hey-day  of  his  renown,  when  upon  his  still 
youthful  brow  rested  the  triple  crown  of  poet,  orator 
and  historian,  Lamartine  had  written  these  words  to 
Delphine:  "A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  love  is  worth 
more  than  ten  centuries  of  glory,  and  one  minute  ot 
virtue,  of  prayer,  of  enthusiastic  aspiration  of  the  soul 
toward  God,  is  worth  more  than  a  whole  century  of 
love." 

Madame  de  Girardin  had  the  same  deep,  religious 
sentiment.     It  would  appear  even  in  her  worldly  chron- 


68  LIFE.  PORTRAITS. 


icles  of  La  Presse.  In  his  beautiful  eulogy,  pronounced 
at  her  grave,  the  Abbe  Mitrand  said : — 

"  She  was  a  Christian,  this  brave  soul,  who,  seeing 
death  approach  from  afar,  calmly  awaited  the  king  of 
terrors  and  defied  his  power,  invoking  Him  who  is  the 
resurrection  and  the  life.  She  was  a  Christian,  this 
elegant,  witty,  intellectual  woman  of  the  world,  who, 
too  proud  to  kneel  to  earthly  powers,  humbly  prostrat- 
ed herself  at  the  feet  of  the  minister  of  Clirist  she  had 
summoned,  submitting  meekly  to  the  will  of  God." 

A  few  years  previous,  at  the  funeral  of  General  Foy, 
Madame  de  Girardin  had  said  "  It  is  thus  I  would  wish 
to  die,  in  the  midst  of  so  many  illustrious  men  and 
mourning  women."      Her  wish  was  granted. 

The  tidings  of  her  decease  caused  a  marked  sensation 
in  Paris.  Those  who  had  known  her  only  by  name,  wept ; 
those  who  had  enjoyed  her  love  and  friendship  were 
inconsolable.  That  charming  salon,  now  desolate,  the 
courts,  the  garden,  even  that  avenue  of  the  Champs 
Elys^es,  were  not  vast  enough  for  the  immense  concourse 
gathered  to  pay  her  the  last  honors. 

In  the  Parisian  journals  there  was  one  unanimous 
burst  of  regret  and  homage.  The  world  of  letters  and 
journalism  wept  her  who  had  reigned  its  queen.  Many 
tributes  were  paid  to  her  memory,  and  from  the  'shades 
of  his  voluntary  exile,  Victor  Hugo  sent  a  poetical  adieu, 
which  will  live  as  long  as  the  language  endures. 

Alas  !  what  has  become  of  that  house  with  the  white 
columns,  that  sacred  temple  of  b.eauty  and  friendship, 
of  art  and  genius  ?  Tempus  edax,  homo  edacior.  Time 
demolishes,  but  man  is  more  destructive  still.  Nothing 
remains  of  that  Greek  temple,  not  even  the  ruins ;  the 
very  street  on  which  it  stood  has  disappeared. 

Thus  all  changes,  all  passes,  thus  we  ourselves  are 


1 


MADAME  DE  GIRAEDIN.  69 

passing,  few  of  us  leaving  any  more  trace,  than  tlie  bird 
that  sweeps  the  air,  the  bark  that  glides  over  the  river's 
breast. 

All  that  is  mortal  of  Madame  de  Giradin  rests  at 
Montmartre.  "  Place  above  my  grave  a  simple  cross 
as  its  sole  ornament,"  she  had  written  in  her  last  testa- 
ment. The  wish  was  held  sacred.  Beside  hers  is 
another  waiting  grave  with  a  mortuary  slab  upon  which 
is  this  inscription  • 

La  mort  les  a  s^par€s, 
La  mort  les  a  r€unis. 

The  complete  works  of  Madame  de  Girardin  have 
been  published  under  the  auspices  of  her  husband,  in 
six  elegant  volumes.  This  beautiful  edition  is  a 
worthy  and  enduring  monument  to  the  memory  of  her 
who  has  been  so  justly  styled  the  most  intellectual 
woman  of  the  nineteenth  century. 


ARSENE  HOUSSAYE.  * 

Arsene  Houssaye  was  born  at  Bruyeres,  March  28tli, 
1815.  He  comes  from  a  family  of  agriculturists,  of 
noble  descent.  He  has  the  right,  if  it  seems  good  to  him, 
to  bear  the  title  of  Count  de  Valbon-Montherault,  and 
to  wear  the  armorial  insignia  of  his  race.  From  a  book 
of  Ajsene  Houssaye's,  Un  Voyage  a  ma  Fenetre,  we  copy 
some  details  of  his  childhood. 

"  I  was  very  young,"  he  says,  "  when  I  left  my  dear 
mountain,  all  sown  with  daisies  and  eglantine,  its  de- 
clivities decked  with  generous  vines  of  gold  and  purple 
hue.  Study  was  impossible  in  my  paternal  house,  a  great 
hive  of  labor,  a  real  industrial  city.  My  father  for  a 
time  confided  me  to  the  care  of  his  father,  who  had 
another  noisy  house,  where  they  worked  little  but 
amused  themselves  a  great  deal.  There  were  every  day, 
Homeric  repasts  and  long  night  vigils,  during  which 
we  told  stories,  and  played  and  danced  and  supped.  I 
loved  better  the  more  quiet  and  simple  abode  of  my 
maternal  grandfather,  who  lived  at  the  centre  of  the 
town." 

This  maternal  grandfather  was  an  old  sans  eulotte,  a 
sculptor  in  wood,  and  a  distant  cousin  of  Condorcet. 


•  Portraits  et  Silhouettes. — Eugene  de  Mirecourt. 


AESilNE  nOUSSAYE.  71 

He  had  been  mayor  of  the  town  in  the  good  old  time  of 
Saint-Just  and  Maximilien.  By  a  strange  chance,  here, 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  nation,  a  Picardian  commune, 
emancipated  under  Philip  Augustus,  had  preserved  all 
its  privileges,  all  its  franchises,  and,  '93  had  found  it 
peopled  with  repiiblicans,  of  whom  the  Robespierres 
and  Dantons  had  little  to  learn.  Neither  the  radiant 
passage  of  the  imperial  meteor,  nor  the  re-installation 
of  the  legitimate  monarchy,  could  change  the  senti- 
ments of  this  ex-mayor  of  Bruyeres.  He  educated  his 
grandson  in  principles  of  the  broadest  independence, 
and  in  the  hatred  of  tyrants. 

"He  was  a  very  honest  man,  esteemed  by  all  the 
■world,  even  by  my  paternal  grandfather,"  continues 
Arsene,  "  from  whom  he  had  violently  wrested  authority 
in  1789 ;  for  both  had  succeeded  to  the  helm  of  affairs 
in  Bruyeres  during  the  flux  and  reflux  of  republican  and 
royalist  opinions." 

According  to  his  own  confession,  this  boy  Arsene  was 
a  precious  good-for-nothing,  always  ready  to  laugh  in 
the  face  of  his  masters,  and  giving  play  a  decided  pref- 
erence to  study. 

"Our  school,"  writes  he,  "was  composed  of  about 
twenty-five  young  scapegraces,  each  more  determined 
to  hack  at  his  neighbor's  tree  than  at  the  tree  of  know- 
ledge. This  small  army,  very  heroically  seeking  to 
imitate  Fra  Diavolo  and  his  band,  diffused  itself  over 
the  town  and  surrounding  meadows,  and  committed  all 
sorts  of  mischief.  If  I  was  not  the  chief,  I  was  one  of 
the  captains  always  obeyed,  because  my  grandfather 
was  mayor,  and  possessed  large  gardens  which  we  took 
by  assault.  Among  our  lawless  proceedings,  there  is 
one,  I  would  it  were  in  my  power  to  expiate  by  some 
monkish  penance.    The  old  church  of  Bruyeres,  in  1825, 


72  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

had  the  most  beautiful  Gothic  windows  remaining  in 
the  country.  One  evening,  when  we  did  not  know 
where  else  to  throw  our  stones,  we  had  the  impiety 
(double  impiety,  since  it  at  the  same  time  outraged  art 
and  religion)  to  hurl  them  at  the  pious  personages  of 
the  Passion.  Would  you  believe  that  this  act  of  van- 
dalism was  not  punished  ?  The  towns-people  concluded 
that  we  had  done  right  in  destroying  these  antiquated 
objects,  and  delighted  at  having  new,  plain  glass,  came 
very  near  voting  us  a  public  recompense.  The  Cur^ 
himself  regarded  this  only  as  an  inconsequential  boyish 
fi-olic." 

But  all  at  once,  a  solemn  self-absorption  replaced 
this  wild  exuberance  of  spirits  in  j^oung  Ars^ne.  He 
shut  himself  up  from  morning  to  night  in  his  grand 
father's  library.  A  very  little  volume,  printed  in  1752, 
with  the  king's  approval,  was  the  sole  cause  of  the 
great  change  that  had  come  over  the  lad.  The  volume 
was  a  collection  of  French  poetry  from  Villon  to  Ben- 
serade.  In  his  strolls  over  the  mountains  and  meadows 
Arsene  took  the  precious  volume  along  with  him,  learn- 
ing by  heart  many  of  its  sonnets  and  ballads. 

"  What  the  deuce  are  you  repeating  ? "  asked  the 
master  of  the  Bruyeres  school  one  day,  as  the  boy  was 
reciting  to  himself  one  of  his  newly  learned  poems. 
"It  cannot  be  your  syntax  lesson." 

"  No,  it  is  a  stanza  of  Saint- Amant's." 

"  And  who  is  Saint-Amant  ?  " 

The  admirer  of  the  old  poets  shrugged  his  shoulders 
in  utter  disgust  at  such  ignorance  in  his  teacher.  He 
declared  that  henceforth  he  would  learn  only  verses, 
and  the  master  never  afterward  sought  to  impose  upon 
him  any  other  exercise  of  the  memor3\  This  master 
was  a  man  of  fifty  years,  who  sang  in  church  and  drank 


ARSENE  HOUSSAYE.  73 

huge  bumpers  at  the  inn.  He  dearly  loved  Ms  monthly 
wages,  but  gave  himself  little  trouble  about  the  instruc- 
tion of  his  pupils.  Arsene  always  learned  what  he  liked 
best. 

"  I  thank  you,  O  my  first  master,  for  what  you  did 
nnt  tcdch  me,"  he  wrote  in  after  years.  "  For  Geography, 
which  makes  a  botch  of  the  world,  for  History  which 
dishonors  it,  for  Philosophy,  which  doubts  God !  I 
thank  you  for  having  withdrawn  from  my  lips,  that 
bitter  cup  of  the  Dauaides,  There  we  shed  all  our 
tears,  but  the  cup  is  never  full." 

They  feared  that  Arsene  was  ill ;  he  was  only  becom- 
ing a  poet.  Like  all  young  poets,  he  fell  in  love,  and 
wrote  naive,  sweet  verses  to  the  adored  one.  She  died 
in  early  girlhood,  but  he  always  wept  her  in  his  rhymes, 
this  fair  Cecile. 

Arsene  was  his  mother's  idol,  and  she,  in  league  with 
the  republican  grandfather,  was  in  a  fair  way  to  spoil 
the  lad,  by  yielding  to  all  his  caprices.  But  Houssaye 
p^re,  was  made  of  sterner  stuff ;  he  was  a  man  of  un- 
poetic  mould  and  of  inflexible  resolution.  When  he 
learned  that  Arsene  was  given  to  rhyming,  he  fell  into 
a  terrible  rage,  and  ordered  him  to  abandon  all  such 
nonsense. 

But  he  who  has  ascended  Parnassus,  does  not  so 
easily  make  up  his  mind  to  descend.  Arsene  offered  no 
open  resistance  to  his  father's  will,  but  he  still  paid 
secret  court  to  the  Muse.  The  master  of  the  house 
one"  day  discovered  some  new  Verses  from  his  son's  pen. 
The  storm  broke  forth  with  new  fury.  Those  few 
volumes  of  poetry  so  dear  to  our  young  rhymer,  were 
consigned  to  the  flames.  Breboeuf,  Saint-Amant,  Thdo- 
phile,  were  roasted  without  mercy.  La  Fontaine  him- 
self found  no  favor  in  the  eyes  of  this  stern  contemner 


74  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

of  the  Muses.  Never  had  there  been  witnessed  such  an 
auto-da-fe  of  poets. 

Arsene  was  shut  up  in  his  chamber  with  a  treatise  on 
Algebraic  Equations,  and  Condilla's  "  Art  of  Thinking," 
for  company.  Pen  and  ink  were  taken  from  him,  so 
that  he  could  yield  to  no  temptation  to  rhyme.  Seeing 
the  door  of  his  chamber  closed,  upon  him  by  a  double 
lock,  the  lad  decamped  through  the  window.  His  two 
grandfathers  opened  their  purses  to  him,  and  now  be- 
hold our  young  poet  en  route  for  Paris,  where  he  hoped 
to  rhyme  in  perfect  freedom. 

When  he  arrived  in  Paris,  the  cholera  was  raging 
fearfully.  It  had  already  carried  .off  eighteen  hundred 
victims,  and  at  the  hotel  Malta  alone,  forty-eight  persons 
had  died  within  a  single  week,  Arsene  coming  here 
for  lodgings,  found  only  one  tenant  left,  a  youug  Hol- 
lander named  Paul  Van  del  Heyl.  As  he  was  about 
to  flee  to  less  dubious  quarters,  the  Hollander  smiled 
and  said:  "Remain  in  this  house;  Death  believes  that 
no  person  is  left  here." 

Van  del  Heyl  was  also  engaged  in  literature,  and  he 
and  Arsene  became  friends  at  once.  The  Houssaye,  who 
has  since  grown  so  impassioned  for  art,  had  little  respect 
for  it  at  this  time.  With  his  new  friend  Paul,  he  com- 
posed a  melodrama  full  of  murders  and  all  sorts  of 
'  crime.  The  two  3^oung  men  also  wrote  verses  for  the 
f.treet  singers,  which  sold  marvellously  well,  thanks  to 
their  pompous  title:  ^^ Songs  after  the  Manner  of  Be- 
rangery 

Tiiese  were  only  bojish  recreations ;  the  lads  were 
really  occupied  in  serious  studies.  Arsene  had  fonnd  a 
Greek  master,  and  rephmged  into  antiqiiit}'.  As  he 
lived  opposite  the  College   de  France,  he  attended  the 


ARSENE    HOUSSAYE.  75 

lecture-courses.  He  soon  met  Roger  de  Beauvoir  and 
Gavarni,  and  be  had  formed  some  acquaintance  with 
Theopiiile  Gantier,  at  the  Louvre,  where  that  intrepid 
admirer  of  form  was  passing  entire  days  in  contemplating 
a  Suzanne  at  the  bath.  Gautier  ere  long  introduced  him 
to  several  poets,  painters,  and  sculptors,  all  great  lovers 
of  plastic  beauty,  and  pagans  to  the  end  of  their  finger- 
nails. This  pleiad  of  artists,  who  fraternized  in  all  sorts 
of  ways,  in  age,  in  taste,  in  beliefs,  and  especially  in 
want  of  nu)ney,  resolved  to  lodge  under  the  same  roof, 
to  share  their  property  in  common,  and  march  to  glory 
in  a  close  phalanx. 

In  a  sort  of  ravine,  hollowed  out  between  the  Lourre 
and  the  Place  du  Carrousel,  a  narrow  street  at  that 
time  descended  to  the  Seine,  its  houses,  old  and  black, 
bearing  the  architectural  seal  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
It  was  in  one  of  these  dwellings  that  our  artist  friends 
set  up  their  household  gods. 

The  proprietor  unhesitatingly  offered  them  one  of 
his  largest  appartements,  but  he  bitterly  repented  when 
he  saw  his  tenants  move  in.  They  had  very  little  in 
the  way  of  furniture,  but  they  made  up  for  this  defici- 
ency, by  cramming  their  lodgings  with  paper  packages, 
books,  cartoons  and  easels. 

Before  their  windows  lay  a  huge,  uncultivated  garden, 
adorned  with  trees,  that  had  been  suffered  to  branch 
out  in  wild  luxuriance.  Half  a  dozen  horses,  two  cows 
and  four  donkeys  grazed  at  will  upon  this  green  sward 
in  the  shadow  of  the  virgin  forest.  Here,  too,  a  brood 
of  hens,  led  by  a  high-crested  sultan,  lived  in  most 
amicable  relations  with  a  regiment  of  geese,  ducks  and 
Guinea-fowl.  You  would  have  said  that  the  antedilu- 
vian Ark,  had  rested  here  in  the  very  centre  of  Paris, 


76  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

as  upon  another  Mount  Ararat,  to  deposit  its  motley 
array  of  bipeds  and  quadrupeds. 

To-day,  the  ravine  is  filled,  the  street  is  demolished, 
and  the  Louvre  majestically  extends  one  of  its  stony 
wings  over  the  virgin  forest.  Soon  after  the  installa- 
tion of  our  impoverished  young  artists  in  this  singular 
abode,  one  of  their  number,  Gerard  de  Norval,  fell  heir 
to  an  inheritance,  and  Arsene's  father,  somewhat  recon- 
ciled to  his  son  and  to  literature,  sent  him  some  five- 
hundred  franc  notes.  All  shared  in  the  new  riches, 
and  abundance  suddenly  reigned  in  this  phalanstery  of 
letters. 

Armed  with  pencils  and  brushes,  our  artists  frescoed 
their  ceilings,  and  covered  the  wood-work  with  master- 
pieces. They  soon  had  a  splendid  salon,  which  became 
the  scene  of  many  a  jovial  reunion.  Thi^ophile  Gautier 
laid  down  aesthetic  laws  for  the  band,  and  one  of  them 
was  that  no  meagre  woman  should  be  admitted  to  their 
soirees. 

This  was  a  conclave  of  pagans,  of  infatuated  Atheni- 
ans, who  seemed  to  believe  themselves  living  in  the  age 
of  Pericles,  and  to  whom  beauty  and  glory  were  the 
highest  good.  After  having  gone  back  twenty-three 
centuries  in  their  manners  and  their  creeds,  they  were 
one  day  forced  to  abandon  their  dream.  One  of  them, 
Edward  Ourliac,  took  refuge  in  religion,  which  was 
most  wise.  Esquires  plunged  into  politics,  which  was 
most  imprudent ;  others,  in  materialism,  found  what  they 
believed  to  be  the  true  science  of  living.  Each  clipped 
the  white  wings  of  his  muse,  and  plunging  into  active 
work,  became  a  part  of  the  practical,  prosaic  da3's  in 
which  he  lived.  One  alone,  sought  to  go  on  dreaming. 
He  was  the  simplest,  the  most  sincere  of  all,  a  beautful 
soul,  cruelly  wounded  in  his  self-love,  a  noble  intelli- 


ARSfiNE  HOUSSAYE.  77 

gence,  who  knew  not  how  to  walk  leaning  on  the  staff 
of  faith.  This  one,  Gerard  de  Norval,  awoke  at  last, 
but  it  was  only  to  suicide. 

This  Bohemian  life  lasted  from  1833  tol837,  and  Th^o- 
phile  Gautierand  ArseneHoussaye  were  its  leading  spirits. 

Upon  his  arrival  in  Paris,  Arsene  was  only  seventeen 
years  old.  A  precocious  youth,  he  belonged  to  a  preco- 
cious epoch.  When  not  quite  twenty,  he  published  his 
first  book,  the  Couronne  de  Bluets,  a  paradoxical  ro- 
mance, more  to  be  commended  for  the  beauty  of  its 
style  than  the  philosophy  it  preaches. 

A  certain  publisher  of  Paris,  pleased  with  Ars^ne's 
first  book,  proposed  to  purchase  from  the  young  author 
a  second  romance,  entitled  La  Pecheresse,  and  to  pay 
him  in  books. 

"  ]\Iuch  obliged,"  replied  Arsene,  "  I  pay  my  landlord 
in  francs ! " 

Another  publisher  paid  cash  down  for  La  Pecheresse^ 
and  two  days  after  the  appearance  of  this  strange  novel, 
the  author  received  from  his  Majesty,  the  king  of  critics, 
this  agreeable  note :  , 

"  Come  and  see  me,  T  have  read  a  charming  book  of 
yours,  which  I  greatly  admire.  Jules  Janct." 

The  young  romancer  hastened  to  respond  to  the 
flattering  invitation,  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
great  journalist  of  the  Dehats. 

At  this  period,  the  Saint-Si monians  were  proclaiming 
the  emancipation  of  women.  They  gave  Arsene's  ro- 
mance an  enthusiastic  welcome,  as  it  was  supposed  to 
be  a  sort  of  apology  for  their  doctrines.  He  wrote  six- 
teen or  eighteen  other  romances,  in  a  few  of  which  he 
was  assisted  by  Jules  Sandeau. 

His  poems,  p  iblished  in  1852,  give  evidence  of  no. 


78  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

very  liigli  poetical  iusi)iration,  but  tliey  bear  the  impress 
of  reiuaikable  delicacy  and  grace.  Witlioiit  the  power 
of  Victor  Hugo  or  the  originality  of  Alfred  de  Musset, 
Ars^ne  Houssaye  holds  his  rank  among  the  poets  of  our 
day.  His  poetry  is  blonde,  dreamy  and.  melancholy. 
He  is  not  gifted  with  the  brilliant  voice  of  the  nightin- 
gale, but  he  lias  the  sweet,  limpid  melodies  of  the 
linnet. 

More  and  more  an  enthusiast  for  art,  he,  in  1840, 
made  an  excursion  upon  the  old  Hollandais  soil,  to 
study  the  works  of  Rembrandt  and  Rubens.  Chosen 
two  years  previous,  to  render  accounts  of  the  exposi- 
tions of  painting,  he  continued  them  up  to  1843,  when 
he  took  charge  of  L' Artiste.  Under  his  direction,  this 
art  journal  became  an  elegant  review,  embellished  by  the 
highest  efforts  of  both  the  pen  and  pencil.  A  pleiad 
of  young  writers,  some  already  known,  others  ambitious 
of  distinction,  grouped  themselves  around  the  editor- 
in-chief.  The  direction  of  the  Artiste  did  not  prevent 
Houssaye's  still  writing  for  the  Revue  de  Paris,  where, 
in  1838,  he  had  begun  a  charming  gallery  of  Portraits 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  which  will  remain  models 
of  their  kind.  The  volume  entitled  "  Philosophers  and 
Comediennes  "  completes  the  collection.  M.  Boyer  has 
wiitten  a  very  remarkable  critique  upon  these  Portraits, 
in  which  we  find  the  following  sentence : 

"  Arscne  Houssaye  is  a  literary  Cagliostro  who  has 
danced  the  minuet  with  Madame  de  Pompadour,  and 
who  now  waltzes  with  Mademoiselle  Rachel." 

This  is  painting  a  man  with  one  stroke  of  the  brush. 

Doctor  Veron  was  then  throned  on  ITie  Constitutionnel. 
Actresses,  lit  ing  or  dead,  always  allured  this  personage. 
He  found  that  Houssaye  had  admirably  sketched  the 
graceful  and  spirituelle  figures  of  Sophie  Arnould  and 


ARS:&N^E  HOUSSAYE.  79 

Guiniard.  "Here  is  some  one  who  would  enliven  the 
Constitutionnel  and  its  readers,"  thought  he. 

That  very  day,  Houssaye  received,  with  the  doctor's 
card,  a  note  inviting  him  to  call  at  the  editorial 
rooms. 

"What does  the  Revue  de  Paris  pay  you?  But  very 
little  I  imagine,"  said  this  admirer  of  actresses.  "As 
for  La  Presse  it  is  not  generous.  Girardin  pays  Thdophile 
Gautier  with  what  he  takes  from  the  others.  If  I  were 
to  accept  all  your  Portraits,  what  would  you  wish  for 
each?" 

"  A  hundred  francs,"  returned  Houssaye.  "  I  will  give 
you  one  hundred  and  fifty.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  If  so,  let 
us  go  and  dine  at  V^four's." 

Enchanted  at  the  nabob's  generosity,  Houssaye  went 
down  with  the  doctor.  A  magnificent  carriage  was 
awaiting  them.  They  entered  it.  "  Have  you  horses  ?  " 
asked  Veron. 

"  No,  certainly  not ;  I  have  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  go 
on  foot." 

"  One  reason  the  more  for  having  an  equipage. 
Horses,  my  dear  fellow,  are  a  stimulus.  Those  who 
walk,  never  arrive." 

O,  philosophy  of  our  age,  here  is  one  of  thy  apostles ! 
Arsene  allowed  himself  to  be  only  half  seduced  by  these 
triumphant  maxims.  He  has  a  carriage  now,  but  he 
almost  always  goes  on  foot. 

In  1846,  Houssaye,  received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor  for  a  History  of  Flemish  Painting,  a  remark- 
able work,  which  has  had  a  great  sale,  and  has  brought 
a  large  sum  to  its  author.  Before  publishing  this  his- 
tory, he  revisited  Holland,  and  made  the  tour  of  all  the 
museums  of  Germany,  Italy  and  France. 

Arsene  Houssaye  is  a  silent  soul,  who  has  a  profound 


80  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

horror  of  garrulousness.  He  often  repeats  to  himself 
that  fine  saying  of  Pythagoras,  "  Hold  your  tongue,  or 
say  something  better  than  silence." 

Like  many  well  known  personages,  he  does  not,  morn- 
ings, prepare  hons  mots  for  use  during  the  day.  His 
witty  replies  betray  neither  pretension  nor  research. 
They  are  improvisations,  and  pure  gold. 

When  Emile  Deschamps  wished  to  enter  the  French 
Academy,  he  had  at  first  twelve  votes ;  then  the  num- 
ber was  reduced  to  four,  and  finally  to  two.  "Poor 
Deschamps !  he  is  dying  of  extinction  of  the  voice,"  said 
Ars^ne. 

At  a  dinner  given  to  men  of  letters,  each  in  turn 
spoke  of  his  manner  of  writing. 

"  I  work  at  night,"  said  the  author  of  '  Alonzo.' 
"  Four  hours  of  sleep  suffices  me." 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  le  Ministre,"  replied  Houssaye,  "  you 
often  preside  at  the  councils  of  the  university !  " 

We  might  recall  a  score  of  sallies  of  this  kind. 

Married  in  1847,  to  a  charming  woman,  rich,  happy 
in  his  domestic  relations,  with  a  well-earned  and  some- 
what extended  fame,  and  a  broad,  fruitful  career  before 
him,  Houssaye  took  one  f^lse  step,  which  conducted 
him  to  the  edge  of  an  abyss.  He  plunged  into  politics, 
thinking  that  this  way  lay  the  road  to  the  Chamber,  to 
the  Ministry,  to  all  sorts  of  civic  honors.  The  remem- 
brance of  his  grandfather  electrized  the  democratic  fibre 
of  Lis  nature.  He  harangued  the  Picardian  students; 
and  as  he  drank  champagne  with  them  at  the  Chateau- 
Rouge,  he  reminded  them  that  they  had  the  honor  cf 
being  from  the  same  province  as  Condorcet,  Camille 
Desmoulins  and  Saint-Just.  In  brief,  he  arrayed  his 
blonde  head  in  a  Phrygian  cap,  and  no  longer  went  to 
dine  with  the  Duke  de  Montpensier  at  Vincennes. 


ARSftNE  HOUSSAYE.  81 

From  the  grejit  revolutioDary  clock,  the  hour  of  the 
republic  struck.  Houssaye  flung  hnnself  into  the  move- 
ment, founded  a  club,  and  straightway  shrank  back 
affrighted. 

He  had  believed  he  hailed  a  dawn,  and  perceiving  in 
the  sky  only  an  extinguished  comet,  he  at  once  faced 
about  and  turned  his  back  to  the  waning  star  whose 
uncertain  beams  could  illumine  only  ruins.  From  the 
stage  where  he  had  thought  to  play  a  role,  he  leaped 
into  the  parterre,  became  one  of  the  audience,  and  hissed 
that  wicked  parody  of  '93  they  were  trying  to  present 
as  a  ne77  piece.  He  abandoned  politics,  resumed  the 
pen,  and  began  his  "  History  of  the  Forty-first  Chair  of 
the  Academy." 

At  this  time,  the  Theatre  Francais  was  given  over  to 
anarchy.  They  wished  to  place  at  its  head  a  conciliatory 
man  who  could  restore  order,  and  Houssaye  was  chosen 
director.  He  remained  seven  years  in  this  office,  and 
his  directorship  gave  universal  satisfaction.  Rival 
cliques  were  reconciled,  old  grievances  removed,  old  cos- 
tumes sent  to  Rag  Fair;  new  scenery  and  new  pieces 
wooed  back  the  public  to  the  deserted  boxes,  and  Hous- 
saye's  administration  proved  artistically  and  financially 
a  most  brilliant  success. 

Returning  to  literature,  some  unhappy  impulse  moved 
Houssaye  to  write  and  publish  his  "  King  Voltaire,"  a 
sort  of  nonsensical  apology  for  the  most  despicable  of 
men  and  the  most  infamous  of  philosophers.  In  writing 
this  bad  book,  Houssaye  must  have  been  deceived  as  to 
the  sentiment  of  the  present  age,  which  has  given  over 
Voltaire  to  almost  universal  reprobation. 

We  should  have  pity  for  every  sin,  they  say.  ,Yes,  if 
the  sin  is  followed  by  repentance ;  but  our  author,  after 
"King  Voltaire,"    published  the   Charmettes,  a  sort  of 

4* 


82  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

apotheosis  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  who  is  no  bettei 
than  the  Sieur  Arouet. 

Of  all  his  literary  confreres,  Arsdne  Houssaye  is  the 
one  it  seems  most  painful  to  reproach.  He  is  amiable, 
generous,  obliging  and  unselfish.  Egotism  has  never 
tarnished  his  soul.  He  has  a  heart  magnanimous  enougli 
to  confess,  some  day,  the  sins  of  his  pen. 

It  would  be  useless  to  seek  to  present  a  complete  list 
of  this  author's  works.  They  have  already  been  given 
to  the  public  in  ten  octavo  volumes.  We  must  not  for- 
get to  mention  a  curious  weekly  serial  which  for  a 
long  time  appeared  in  La  Presse^  under  the  signature 
of  Pierre  de  I'Estoile,  and  which  he  has  given  the  title 
of  "  History  in  Slippers."  He  has  also  written  several 
theatrical  pieces. 

After  the  completion  of  his  "  Forty-First  Academy_ 
Chair,"  a  grand  success,  M.  Houssaye  tried  his  hand  at 
history.  "King  Yoltaire"  was  followed  by  "  Mademoi- 
selle de  La  Valliere  "  and  "  Notre  Dame  de  Therniidor," 
both  of  which  won  a  great,  but  much  contested  success. 
Even  as  a  historian,  our  author  still  remains  a  fashion- 
able romancist. 

Two  of  his  recent  romances,  "  Mile.  Cleopatra,"  and 
"  The  Romance  of  the  Duchess,"  have  been  very  much 
read.  Houssaye  is  par  excellence  the  painter  of  new  Paris, 
and  of  feminine  manners.  He  has  also  lately  written 
eight  volumes  of  memoirs  relating  to  French  history. 

Since  his  entrance  into  letters,  Arsene  Houssaye  has 
known  all  the  world,  and  none  better  than  he  can 
depict  the  men  and  things  of  his  time.  His  official  func- 
tions as  inspector  general  of  the  Fine  Arts  have  made  it 
his  mission  to  study  the  artistic  wealth  of  France,  to 
serve  young  artists  while  establishing  ancient  renowns. 
Every  six  months  he  pronounces  orations  before  some 


AEStNE  HOUSSAYE.  83 

statue  tliat  has  been  reared,  or  harangues  the  young 
laureates  of  the  arts. 

The  journalist  in  him  has  survived.  For  more  thiia 
twenty  years  he  has  conducted  L^Artiste,  and  some 
years  ago,  he  founded  the  "Review  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century,"  the  ark,  more  or  less  sacred,  of  the  literary 
mind  so  compromised  in  our  day. 

Arsene  Houssaye's  unvaried  success  has  passed  into  a 
proverb.  He  has  never  met  a  reverse  of  fortune.  One 
2d  day  of  December  he  made  five  hundred  thousand 
francs  by  operations  at  the  Bourse,  to  which  he  then 
respectfully  bade  adieu,  promising  to  try  his  luck  there 
no  more.  To  be  just,  we  must  say  that  this  money 
honestly  won  by  Houssaye,  fell  back,  a  plentiful  rain 
into  the  hands  of  the  less  fortunate  aiJ:ists  around  him. 
His  hotel  in  the  Champs  Elys^es,  is  lined  with  the  mas- 
terpieces of  modern  artists. 

In  1855,  Houssaye  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  wife. 
She  died  of  heart  disease,  leaving  to  console  her  stricken 
husband,  the  loveliest  child  in  the  world.  The  boy's 
head  was  like  a  fine  pastel  of  La  Tour ;  a  head  Greuze 
might  choose  for  a  model.  As  this  boy,  Henry  Hous- 
saye, has  grown  up,  he  has  devoted  himself  to  literature, 
to  Greek  literature  in  particular.  Born  in  1848,  he  has 
already  published  a  "  History  of  Apelles." 

Arsene  Houssaye  still  devotes  himself  to  art  and 
literature.  A  successful  journalist  and  author,  a  man 
of  wealth  and  social  position,  his  life  is  one  the  world 
calls  peculiarly  happy  and  prosperous.  He  is  becoming 
widely  known  in  this  country  through  his  correspond- 
ence to  the  New  York  Tribune.  A  brilliant,  fascinating 
volume,  compiled  from  his  letters,  has  been  recently 
published,  entitled  "  Life  in  Paris." 

One  of  his  late  letters  throws  some  new  light  on  his 


84  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

domestic  history.     Speaking  of  the  precocity  of  Parisian 
youth,  he  says : 

"  Children  no  longer  play.  I  have  a  son  ten  years  of 
age.  He  is  something  of  an  American,  for  his  mother 
is  a  charming  woman  of  Peru."  After  narrating  some 
freaks  of  this  precocious  young  gentleman,  M.  Houssaye 
])'3re  adds:  "  I  should  tell  you  that  I  have  two  sons. 
If  ihe  one  belongs  to  the  New  World,  the  other  belongs 
a  great  deal  to  the  ancient  world.  He  is  the  historian 
of  Apelles  and  Alcibiades." 


GEORGE  SAND.* 

Madame  Dudevaxt,  the  George  Sand  of  our  day,  was 
born  in  1804.  She  is  a  lineal  descendant  of  Augustus 
II.  of  Poland,  and  herraaiden  name  was  Amantine-Lucile- 
Aurore  Dupin.  Reared  bv  her  grandmother,  she  passed 
her  early  years  at  the  Chateau  de  Nohant,  an  estate 
lying  in  one  of  the  loveliest  valleys  of  Berri.  This 
grandmother,  the  Countess  de  Horn,  was  a  woman  of 
uncommon  wit  and  grace,  but  far  more  brilliant  than 
solid.  She  had  all  the  anti-religious  ideas,  all  the  para- 
doxical whims  of  her  century.  She  set  the  philosophy 
of  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  above  the  gospel,  and  sought  to 
educate  the  young  girl  committed  to  her  care  in  accord- 
ance with  these  peculiar  views. 

At  fifteen,  Aurore  was  a  graceful  dancer,  an  adroit 
equestrienne ;  she  also  perfectly  understood  the  arts  of 
managing  a  gun  and  sword.  She  was  a  lively,  petulant 
amazon,  a  charming,  thoughtless  young  creature,  able, 
like  her  grandmother  before  her,  to  follow  the  chase,  to 
dash  thi-ough  the  avenues  of  Marly;  but  she  did  not 
know  how  to  make  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

It  was  soon  whispered  in  the  grandmother's  ears,  that 
the  pious  Restoration  had  little  sympathy  with  the  doc- 
trines of  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau,  and  desired  that  young 

*  Portraits  et  Silhouettes. — Eugtue  de  Mirtcourt. 


86  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

persons  should  not  be  educated  after  the  fashion  of 
Emile.  This  greatly  surprised  the  old  lady,  and  in  philo- 
osophical  matters,  gave  her  a  very  low  opinion  of  the 
new  regime.  Nevertheless,  it  was  decided  to  send 
Aurore  to  a  Parisian  convent  to  receive  that  religioua 
instruction  of  which  she  had  not  the  least  tincture. 

This  was  a  painful  separation  for  the  young  girl,  wlio 
adored  her  grandmother.  In  later  years,  whenever  in 
her  books,  she  speaks  of  this  dear  guardian  of  her  in- 
fancy, it  is  always  with  a  profound  sentiment  of  regret, 
veneration  and  love.  About  1836,  at  the  time  of  her 
suit  for  divorce,  she  writes  : 

"  O  grandmother,  arise  and  come  to  me !  Cast  off  the 
winding-sheet  in  which  they  have  wrapped  thy  broken 
body,  for  its  last  sleep ;  let  thy  old  bones  arise.  Come 
to  succor  me  and  to  console  me.  If  I  must  be  forever 
banished  from  thee,  follow  me  afar  off.  Ah !  if  thou 
hadst  lived,  all  this  evil  would  not  have  come  upon  me. 
I  should  have  found  in  thy  bosom  a  sacred  refuge,  and 
thy  paralyzed  hand  would  have  revivified,  to  shield  me 
from  my  enemies." 

We  find  in  the  "  Letters  of  a  Voyager,"  certain  curious 
details  as  to  the  life  of  Aurore  at  the  Chateau  de  No- 
hant.  Like  all  lively  imaginations,  she  was  extremely 
fond  of  reading.  She  thus  speaks  of  her  earl}'  pursuits  : 
"  Who  is  there  of  us  that  does  not  lovingly  recall  tlie 
first  books  we  devoured  and  relished  ?  The  cover  of  a 
dusty  old  volume  which  met  you  on  the  shelves  of  a 
forgotten  book-case,  has  it  never  retraced  for  you  the 
graceful  pictures  of  your  early  years  ?  Have  you  not 
imagined  3'ou  saw  before  jou  the  broad  meadows  bathed 
in  the  rosy  splendors  of  the  twilight,  as  you  read  it  for 
the  first  time?  How  quickly  the  night  shadows  fell  over 
those  divine  pages!     How  the "unpitying  darkness  made 


GEORGE  SAND.  87 

the  characters  swim  upon  the  paling  leaves !  The  day- 
is  over,  the  lambs  bleat,  the  sheep  have  arrived  at  the 
fold,  the  chirp  of  the  cricket  is  heard  in  the  thatched 
cottages.  You  must  go,  for  the  dam  is  narrow  and  slip- 
pery, the  banks  are  rough.  You  hasten,  but  you  will 
arrive  too  late ;  supper  will  have  begun.  The  servant, 
who  loves  you,  has  set  back  the  clock  as  much  as  he  dares, 
but  it  is  all  in  vain ;  you  will  have  the  humiliation  of 
entering  last,  and  the  grandmother  inexorable  as  to  eti- 
quette, even  in  the  seclusion  of  her  country  home,  will 
reproach  you  in  a  sweet,  sad  voice,  very  softly,  very 
tenderlv ,  but  you  will  be  more  sensible  to  her  gentle 
chiding  than  to  the  severest  chastisement.  And  when, 
asking  you  how  you  have  passed  the  day,  you  confess  to 
her  that  you  have  been  reading  in  a  meadow,  when  call- 
ed upon  to  show  the  book,  you  draw  trembling  from  your 
pocket — "  Estelle  and  Nemorin,"  Oh !  then  the  grand- 
mother will  smile.  Reassure  yourself,  your  treasure  will 
be  restored  to  you,  but  you  will  have  no  need  hence- 
forth to  forget  the  supper-hour.  Happy  season !  Oil,  my 
valley  of  the  Noire  !  O  Corinne  !  O  Bernardin  de  Saint* 
Pierre!  Oh,  the  Iliad!  OMillevoye!  O  Atala!  Oh,  the 
willows  by  the  river !  Oh,  my  vanished  youth !  " 

All  these  details  are  delicious.  We  find  many  other 
such  where  George  Sand  reveals  to  her  readers  charm- 
ing glimpses  of  her  own  history.  We  see  that  the  young 
girl's  grandmother  allowed  her  to  read  whatever  suited 
her  fancy.  Corinne,  and  especially  Atala,  were  to 
awaken  singular  dreams  in  this  young  head  of  fourteen 
years.  The  curious  child  read  all  that  fell  into  her  hands. 
Her  ardent  imagination  sought  food  everywhere,  and  was 
inflamed  at  the  first  spark.  Once  at  the  convent,  she  was 
seduced  by  the  poetr^^  of  Catholicism,  and  often  yielded 
to  transports  of  religious  fervor.     Like  Saint   Theresa, 


88  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

she  passed  entire  hours  in  ecstasy  at  the  foot  of  the  altnr. 
The  death  of  her  grandmother,  which  occurred  in  tlie 
mean  time,  only  increased  her  ascetic  disposition.  She 
left  the  convent  to  pass  a  few  weeks  with  Madame  de  Fran- 
cueil,  and  returned  firmly  resolved  to  become  a  nun. 
It  required  all  the  authority  of  her  family  to  induce  her 
to  marry  six  months  after. 

They  gave  her  hand  to  the  Baron  Dudevant,  an  old, 
retired  soldier,  who  had  become  a  gentleman  farmer, 
much  versed  in  the  rearing  of  stock,  and  himself  over- 
seeing the  workmen.  He  was  a  man  with  a  bald  fore^ 
head,  a  gray  mustache,  and  a  severe  eye ;  an  exacting 
master,  before  whom  all  trembled,  wife,  servants,  horses 
and  dogs.  Never  were  surroundings  more  uncongenial 
to  the  haughty  and  at  the  same  time  tender  natme  of 
this  young  woman.  She  possessed  a  fortune  of  nearly 
half  a  million.  The  agricultural  husband  used  this 
dowry  to  enlarge  his  rural  operations.  He  stocked  liis 
stables  with  pure-blooded  animals,  and  doubled  the 
number  of  his  farming  implements. 

He  concerned  himself  with  everything  but  his  wife, 
and  did  not  seem  to  perceive  that  Aurore,  with  her  seven- 
teen years,  her  refined  mind  and  her  exquisite  sensibility, 
must  languish  in  the  midst  of  this  prosaic  existence. 

Madame  Dudevant,  at  first,  bore  her  sorrows  with  res- 
ignation ;  two  beautiful  children  came  ere  long  to  con- 
sole her  with  their  infantile  smiles  and  caresses.  But 
soon,  finding  her  heart  wounded  even  in  its  maternal 
affections,  she  could  bear  up  no  longer.  She  fell  dan- 
gerously ill ;  the  faculty  of  Berri  ordered  her  to  drink 
the  water  of  the  Pyr^n^es.  Baron  Dudevant,  bound  to 
his  merinos  and  his  ploughshares,  did  not  accompany  his 
wife  on  the  journey. 

At  Bordeaux,  where  she  first  went,  and  where  she 


GEORGE  SAND.  89 

bore  letters  of  introduction  to  old  friends  of  her  family, 
Madame  Dudevant  could  at  last  gain  some  knowledge 
of  the  world.  She  was  overwhelmed  with  attentions, 
and  people  were  pleased  to  extol  the  valuable  qualities 
with  which  heaven  had  endowed  her.  Homage  and 
admiration  everywhere  attended  her. 

lleturned  to  her  home,  the  young  wife  found  her 
husband  as  coldly  indifferent,  and  life  monotonous  and 
irksomt  as  of  old.  In  order  to  combat  those  ideas  of 
revolt  which  had  begun  to  assert  their  empire,  she  sur- 
rounded herself  with  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  she 
received  with  open  arms,  as  so  many  saviours,  poetry, 
art  and  science. 

A  young  compatriot  of  hers,  Jules  Saudeau,  a  law- 
student,  was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Chateau  de  Nohant 
during  his  vacations.  It  was  he  who  first  directed  the 
glance  of  Aurore  toward  that  literary  horizon  where  her 
star  was  ere  long  to  dawn,  and  ascend  upward  until  lost 
from  view.  The  naturalist,  Neraud,  dwelt  upon  an  ad- 
joining estate,  and  about  this  time  began  to  come  to  the 
Chateau  to  give  its  young  mistress  lessons  in  botany  and 
entomology.  He  was  married  and  had  two  children,  to 
whom  he  had  wished  to  give  the  names  of  plants. 
They  had  allowed  him  without  remonstrance,  to  name 
his  son  Olivier,  but  when  he  wanted  to  name  his  daugh- 
ter Petite  Centauree,  Madame  Dudevant  protested.  She 
pursued  her  studies  with  this  enthusiastic  and  eccentric 
teacher  for  the  most  part  in  the  open  air.  Her  little  son, 
then  four  years  old,  was  the  companion  of  their  rambles. 
These  relations  were  without  reproach.  Neraud  was  a 
little,  copper-colored  man,  absorbed  by  two  passions, 
science  and  politics  ;  he  had  early  enrolled  himself  under 
the  flag  of  the  republic,  and  had  joined  a  club  of  Car- 
bonari in  Paris. 


90  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

The  friendship  of  a  man  for  a  woman  seldom  endures 
long  without  an  admixture  of  love.  Jules  Sandeau 
returned  to  Paris,  bearing  in  his  head  a  profound  passion 
which  he  dared  not  avow.  And  Neraud,  too,  soon  yield- 
ed to  the  spell  of  Madame  Dudevant's  charms.  He  wrote 
billets-doux  to  her  into  which  every  now  and  then,  slip- 
ped some  little  madrigal.  The  discovery  of  one  of  these 
led  to  a  violent  scene  with  the  young  wife's  husband,  in 
the  midst  of  which  a  fancy  seized  the  savant  to  quit  the 
country  and  join  the.  Moravian  brethren.  He  stopped 
at  the  rocks  of  Vaucluse,  resolved  to  live  and  die  on  the 
borders  of  that  fountain,  where  Petrach  had  been  wont 
to  evoke  the  image  of  Laura  from  the  mirror  of  the 
waters.  Madame  Dudevant  had  never  returned  his  pas- 
sion. "  I  was  notmuch  disquieted  at  this  fatal  resolution," 
writes  she.  "  I  knew  him  too  well  to  believe  hi^  sorrow 
irreparable.  So  long  as  there  were  flowers  and  insects 
upon  the  earth,  Cupid's  arrows  must  glance  from  him 
without  effect." 

In  fact,  he  returned  with  a  herbarium  full  of  treasures. 
Aurore  ran  to  meet  him,  and  laughing,  gave  him  two 
hearty  kisses.  A  tear  coursed  slowly  down  the  cheek  of 
the  botanist.  Love  was  submerged,  but  friendship  sur- 
vived. The  suspicious  husband  would  not  believe  in 
this  sudden  cure.  His  relations  to  his  wife  were  poison- 
ed by  doubt  and  jealousy,  and  it  becoming  impossihle 
for  the  pair  to  live  together,  a  voluntary  separation  took 
place.  Madame  Dudevant  left  all  her  fortune  in  exchange 
for  her  liberty.  Unhappy  with  her  husband,  deserted 
by  Sandeau,  Aurore  went  to  Paris,  where  she  took  refuge 
in  the  same  convent  in  which  a  portion  of  her  youth  had 
been  spent.  But  her  heart  was  so  much  agitated  that 
she  could  not  long  enjoy  the  quiet  of  this  hol}'^  retreat. 

We  ere  lonsr  find  Madame  Dudevant  in  a  little  attic 


GEORGE  SAND.  91 

of  the  Quay  Saint  Michel,  ^yhere  Jules  Sandeau  soon 
discovered  her.  She  was  absolutely  destitute  of  re- 
sources. As  for  Sandeau,  the  son  of  a  modest  attorney, 
he  received  only  a  small  allowance  from  his  family,  and 
was  himself  struggling  with  poverty.  Mme.  Dudevant 
having  a  slight  knowledge  of  painting,  Sandeau  applied  to 
the  keeper  of  a  fancy  shop,  who  gave  her  some  candle- 
stick trays  and  snutf-box  covers  to  paint.  But  this  work 
was  both  fatiguing  and  unremunerative.  She  resolved 
to  write,  stating  her  embarrassment,  to  Latouche,  a  native 
of  her  own  province,  the  editor-in-chief  of  Figaro.  He 
replied,  inviting  her  and  Sandeau  to  visit  him  at 
Vallee  aux  Loups,  where  he  dwelt,  near  Chateau- 
briand. "Why  do  you  not  attempt  journalism?"  he 
asked.  "  It  is  less  difficult  than  you  think.  Be  one  of 
our  editors,-  Sandeau,"  he  added — 

"  Ah  me !  I  am  very  indolent  about  writing,"  the 
young  man  replied  na'ively. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  that !  I  will  help  you,"  said  Aurore 
smiling. 

•'  An  excellent  idea  !  "  exclaimed  Latouche.  "  Go  to 
work,  and  bring  me  your  articles  as  soon  as  possible." 

From  that  day  Madame  Dudevant  abandoned  the 
pencil  for  the  pen.  And  thus  began  that  literary  part 
nership  which  attracted  so  much  attention  in  the  reading 
world  of  Paris.  Our  aspirants  for  money  and  fame  se^ 
themselves  to  the  work.  At  the  end  of  six  weeks,  they 
Iiad  finished  a  book,  entitled,  "Rose  and  Blanche,  or  The 
Comedienne  and  the  Nun."  But  they  could  find  no 
publishers  until  Latouche  at  length  came  to  their  aid. 
He  persuaded  an  old  bookseller  to  pay  four  hundred 
francs  for  the  manuscript. 

"  What  name  shall  we  sign  ?  "  asked  Aurore.  "  I 
cannot  without  scandal,  write  the  name  given  me  by  my 
husband  on  the  title-page  of  a  book." 


92  ,  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

"  If  my  father  learns  that  I  have  engaged  in  literature, 
he  will  send  me  his  malediction  at  the  outset,"  said 
Sandeau. 

"  Cut  Sandeau  in  two,"  returned  Latouche,  "  and  your 
father  will  no  longer  recognize  you." 

They  followed  this  advice.  The  book  was  signed 
Juh'H  Sand-i  and  tli6  young  authors  believed  their  fortune 
made.  The  law-student,  very  much  given  to  the  dolce 
far  7iiente,  slept  more  even  than  usual,  and  imagined 
that  the  four  hundred  francs  would  last  forever.  Aurore 
at  this  period  first  adopted  the  masculine  costume,  so  as 
to  visit  the  theatres  unattended,  when  Sandeau  was 
not  inclined  to  bear  her  company. 

Meantime  the  four  hundred  francs  vanished,  and  desti- 
tution again  threatened  the  young  authors.  Aurore  was 
advised  to  journey  to  Berri  to  obtain  a  separation,  or  at 
least  a  yearly  alimony  from  her  husband.  She  departed, 
after  having  drawn  up  with  Sandeau  the  plot  of  Indiana. 
They  divided  the  proposed  work  into  chapters  ;  Aurore 
took  her  share  and  promised  Sandeau  to  toil  diligently 
during  her  absence.  Sandeau  swore  to  do  the  same, 
but  sleep  got  the  upper  hand  with  him,  he  worked  only 
in  dreams.  Upon  Aurore's  return,  he  could  not  present 
her  with  a  single  line  of  his  task. 

"  Ah  well ! "  said  the  young  woman,  laughing,  "  I 
have  not  been  idle.     See  here  !  Read  and  correct." 

Aurore  had  placed  in  his  hands  the  entire  manuscript 
of  "  Indiana." 

At  the  very  first  chapter,  Sandeau  broke  out  into 
enthusiastic  expressions  of  delight.  "  There  is  nothing 
to  retouch,"  he  said.     "  This  story  is  a  chef-d' amvre.''' 

"So  much  the  better!"  cried  the  delighted  Aurore. 
"  Let  us  take  the  two  volumes  to  a  publisher." 

"  But  I  have  not  worked  upon  this  book,"  said  the 


GEORGE  SAND.  93 

young  man  hesitatingly.  "  You  must  sign  it  with  your 
own  name." 

"  Never  !  "  returned  Aurore.  "  We  will  continue  to 
use  the  name  we  have  adapted  for  '  Rose  and  Blanche.'  " 

"  Impossible  !  "  said  Sandeau.  "  I  am  too  honest  to 
steal  your  fame.  1  cannot  accept  your  generous  offer, 
without  descending  in  my  own  esteem. 

Madame  Dudevant  went  to  Latouche,  begging  him  to 
make  Sandeau  reverse  his  decision." 

"You  signed  your  first  book,  Jules  Sand,"  said  La- 
to  uche.  "  Sand^  then,  is  common  property.  Choose  another 
name  than  Jules.  To-day  is  the  23d  of  April,  Saint 
George's  day.  Call  yourself  George  Sand,  and  no  one 
can  object." 

And  thus  was  born  that  pseudonym  so  widely  cele- 
brated. "  Indiana  "  was  sold  for  six  hundred  francs, 
and  its  publishers  prophesied  for  it  a  marvellous  success. 
Figaro  pronounced  the  work  passable  as  to  style,  but 
mediocre  in  interest.  Another  leading  critic,  Alphonse 
Rabbe,  himself  a  would-be  romancist,  declared  the 
book  absurd  in  conception,  style  and  execution.  But 
Indiana  became  all  the  rage,  despite  these  rigorous 
judgments.  Every  journal  made  its  commentary. 
They  related  many  anecdotes  of  the  author,  marvellous 
as  contradictory.  Was  it  a  man?  Who  knew  her? 
Should  they  say  he  or  her?  Jules  Janin,  by  his  article 
upon  George  Sand  in  the  Debats,  chose  to  augment  both 
the  uncertainty  and  the  mystery.  It  was  given  only  to  the 
artist-world,  now  and  then,  to  lift  the  corner  of  the  veil. 

George  Sand  ere  long  occupied  a  dwelling  worthy  of 
her,  where  all  the  celebrities  sued  for  the  honor  of 
admittance.  She  here  received  artists  as  brothers, 
smoked  cigarettes  with  them,  and  surprised  them  by 
her  careless,  witty  gayety.      Happy  in  her  new  name, 


94  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

which  had  received  a  baptism  of  renown,  she  would  be 
called  only  George  and  continued  to  wear  the  masculine 
costume.  This  costume  became  her  marvellously.  You 
met  her  in  the  streets,  upon  the  promenades,  and  upon 
the  boulevard,  with  a  little  overcoat  fastened  at  the 
waist,  the  loveliest  black  hair  in  the  world  falling  over 
it  in  curls.  She  carried  a  cane,  and  smoked  a  manilla 
with  the  most  graceful  applomb. 

In  this  first  intoxication  of  success,  she  forgot  the 
faithful  companion  of  her  days  of  poverty  and  trial. 
Sandeau,  wounded  to  the  heart,  departed  for  Italy,  on 
foot,  alone  and  penniless.  He  was  too  proud  to  com- 
plain, too  courageous  not  to  strive  after  forgetfulness  or 
indifference.  He  remained  ten  months  in  Naples,  and 
returned  on  a  merchant  ship,  whose  captain  had  befriend- 
ed him.  George  Sand  has  more  than  once  regretted 
her  friend  of  the  Quay  Saint-Michel.  In  1835,  she 
wrote :  "  There  hangs  in  my  chamber  the  portrait  of  one 
none  here  have  seen.  For  a  year,  the  person  who  left 
me  this  portrait,  sat  with  me  every  evening,  at  a  little 
table,  and  lived  by  the  same  work  as  I.  We  would  sup 
at  this  same  little  table,  talking  of  art,  of  sentiment  and 
of  the  future.  The  future  has  failed  in  its  promise  to 
us.     Pray  for  me,  my  friend." 

The  author  of  "  Indiana  "  soon  attached  other  jewels 
to  her  literary  crown.  The  Revue  de  Paris  and  the 
Revue  des  Deux  3fondes^  disputed  for  her  books.'  Val- 
entine appeared  at  the  end  of  1832.  Six  months  after, 
'•'■Leila  "  saw  the  light.  These  three  romances,  like  most  of 
those  that  followed,  contain  certain  fierce  attacks  upon 
the  institution  of  marriage.  A  goodly  number  of  critics 
began  to  cry  out  at  the  scandal,  and  to  accuse  the  author 
of  trying  to  sap  the  foundations  of  society.  The  editor 
of  "  Literary  Europe  "  could  not  find  language  strong 


GEORGE    SAND.  95 

enough  to  condemn  the  audacious  woman  who  sought 
to  overthrow  the  work  of  ages.  Gustave  Planche  made 
a  cutting  reply  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Moncles.  A  duel 
ensued,  but  men  of  letters  wound  only  with  the  pen. 

Wrongly  or  rightly,  George  Sand  had  great  esteem 
for  the  poetry  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  then  very  young, 
but  nevertheless  at  the  height  of  his  celebrity.  Buloz 
conductor  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes^  brought  to- 
gether at  a  dinner  the  popular  poet  and  novelist.  A. 
few  days  after,  Musset  attended  a  soiree  at  George  Sand's 
and  six  weeks  later  he  accompanied  her  on  a  tour  to 
Italy  under  the  fallacious  title  of  confidential  secretary. 

Two  years  after  the  poet's  death,  George  Sand  pub- 
lished that  preposterous  romance  which  has  for  its  title, 
Elle  et  Lui,  and  where  each  reader  recognizes  under  the 
most  transparent  veil,  her  own  history  and  that  of  the 
poet.  This  fulminating  anarhenia,  this  bitter  diatribe 
aroused  the  wliolc  world  of  letters.  All  the  friends  of 
the  deceased  poet  rose  in  energetic  protest,  demanding 
an  account  of  the  audacious  authoress  for  this  personal " 
study,  which  she  of  all  others,  had  the  least  right  to 
publish.  M.  Paul  de  Musset,  the  brother  of  Alfred, 
took  up  the  gauntlet, — he,  in  his  turn  published  a  per- 
sonal study :  Lui  et  UUe,  where  he  presented  the  facts 
in  their  true  light. 

On  her  return  from  Italy,  Madame  Sand  published 
five  novels  in  rapid  succession.  Their  titles  were  :  "  An- 
dre," "  La  Marquise,"  "  Lavinia,"  "  Metella  "  and  "  Mat- 
tea."  Never  has  author  possessed  a  more  real  and  in- 
contestable fecundity.  For  forty  years  she  has  known 
no  rest,  but  has  heaped  volume  upon  volume.  "  Leone, 
Leoni,"  "  Jacques,"  "  Simon,"  "  Manprat,"  "  La  Der- 
iiiere  Aldini,"  "Les  Maitres  Masaites,"  "Pauline,"  "A 
Winter  in  Majorca,"  appeared  from  lSo5  to  1837.     Her 


96  LIFE      PORTRAITS. 

style  has  an  irresistible  fascination ;  it  possesses  two 
qualities  equally  precious,  elegance  and  clearness.  Her 
phrases,  sometimes  incorrect,  are  charming  in  their  very 
incorrectness.  She  has  very  ably  defended  herself  from 
the  charge  of  immorality  brought  against  her  works. 
But  we  cannot  deny  that  her  romances  have  done  harm, 
great  harm.  She  has  constituted  herself  the  special 
pleader  of  passion  insurgent  against  duty  ;  of  passion, 
ill  at  ease  in  the  shackles  of  law,  the  conventionalities 
of  society.  Then  as  one  needs  replace  what  one  has 
hurled  down,  for  the  unhappy  ones  exalted  through  her 
exaltation,  led  astray  by  her  wanderings,  she  has  con- 
jured up  the  vision  of  a  promised  land  where  perfect  free- 
dom and  happiness  abide.  She  has  created  an  unknown 
race  of  heroines,  beautiful,  noble,  graild,  strong,  who 
through  the  elevation  of  their  sentiments,  rulS  the  com- 
munity of  marriage,  and  who  know  how  to  rend  without 
pity  and  without  remorse,  all  the  chains  which  restrain 
their  inclinations. 

Herself  a  victim  of  the  conjugal  tie,  Madame  Sand 
should  have  been  content  with  claiming  justice  without 
preaching  revolt ;  but  with  her,  one  first  link  of  duty 
severed,  all  the  rest  become  detached,  and  she  made 
haste  to  proclaim  herself  the  priestess  of  socialism. 

In  1836,  she  resumed  her  name  and  title,  to  enter  a 
suit  against  her  husband,  with  a  view  to  regaining  "pos^ 
session  of  her' fortune,  and  the  guardianship  of  her  chil- 
dren. At  the  different  hearings  which  took  place  at  the 
tril>unal  of  La  Chatre,  and  the  court  roval  of  Bourixes. 
scandalous  details  enough  were  brought  to  light.  The 
agricultural  Baron  Dudevant  had  felt  a  sovereign  dis- 
dain for  the  intelligence  and  transcendent  fjicukies  of 
his  5'oung  wife;  "senseless,  drivelling,  foolish,  stupid," 
were  his  frequent  adjectives  in  addressing  her.     He  ac- 


GEORGE     SAND.  97 

cepted  the  separation  most  philosophically.  He  was  "very 
far  from  being  all  to  blame.  The  acts  of  brutality  of 
which  he  was  accused,  had  a  very  natural  excuse  in  the 
conduct  of  his  wife,  and  are  slight  faults  in  comparis'ui 
with  conjugal  infidelity. 

At  the  time  when  Madame  Sand  gained  her  suit,  and 
the  custody  of  her  children,  her  son  Maurice  was  twelve, 
her  daughter  Solange  was  entering  her  nineteenth  year. 
Soon  the  old  manor  of  Nohant  received  her  to  its  arms, 
and  she  wrote,  "  O  my  household  gods,  here  you  are  just 
as  I  left  you  !  I  incline  before  you  with  that  respect  each 
year  of  age  i  enders  more  profound  in  the  heart  of  man. 
.  .  Why  did  I  ever  forsake  you, — you  always  propi- 
tious to  simple  hearts,  you  who  watch  over  the  little  chil- 
dren while  the  mother  sleeps,you  who  make  chaste  dreams 
of  love  hover  around  the  couch  of  young  girls,  who  give 
sleep  and  health  to  the  aged  ?  Do  you  recognize  me, 
peaceful  Penates?  This  pilgrim  who  arrives  on  foot, 
covered  with  the  dust  of  the  way  and  the  mists  of  the 
night,  do  you  not  take  her  for  a  stranger  ?  " 

Madame  Sand's  children  no  more  left  her.  They  ac- 
companied her  to  Paris  and  on  her  travels.  Surrounded 
by  loving  hearts,  her  mind  relieved  from  trouble,  her 
soul  at  rest,  she  seemed  to  repudiate  the  desperate  doc- 
trines she  had  sown  upon  the  pages  of  "  Leila "  and 
"  Spiridion."  We  have  seen  her  a  Christian  in  her  youth. 
Soured  by  misfortune,  she  had  passed  from  faith  to  doubtj 
then  she  had  given  herself  up  to  exaltation,  to  revolt ; 
now,  she  tried  to  walk  in  the  path  of  repentance,  but 
even  here  her  old  rancor  against  society  led  her  astray. 
Like  an  invalid,  who  has  long  suffered,  she  repelled 
well  known  remedies,  and  resorted  to  quack  nostrums. 
We  now  find  her  associated  with  Lamennais  who  had 
just   founded  the  Monde.      She  wrote  for  this  journal 

5 


98  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

her  "  Letters  to  Murcie,"  where  the  worthy  sentimeiita 
of  the  repentant  Magdalene  clash  against  a  host  of  hete- 
rodox maxims  which  she  shared  in  common  with  Lamen- 
nais.  From  this  literary  connection,  there  remained  to  her 
ii  sort  of  asceticism  alloyed  with  certain  suspicious  politi- 
cal tendencies.  This  gave  birth  to  that  series  of  so- 
cialistic romances,  which  appeared  one  after  another: 
"  Horace,"  "  La  Petite  Fadette"  "  CoUsuelo,"  "  The 
Countess  of  Rudolstadt,"  "Monsieur  Antoine,"  "Zc« 
Maitres  Sonneurs"  etc. 

"  She  allies  herself,"  says  Lamenie,  "  to  those  who 
seek  social  happiness  outside  the  eternal  laws  of  religion 
and  of  the  family.  She  has  become  dreamy  and  Utopian, 
but  she  will  again  become  Christian." 

We  should  never  despair  of  the  divine  compassion. 
But  for  the  last  twenty  years,  Madame  Sand's  works 
have  met  with  only  doubtful  success.  Her  sympathies 
are  with  democrats  and  demagogues.  When  Madame 
Sand  goes  to  confession,  she  keeps  nothing  back.  She 
explains  with  much  frankness  the  acrimony  that  is  the 
ruling  trait  in  most  of  her  works.  Habituated  to  a 
princely  life,  her  income  does  not  always  suffice  for  her 
expenses.  Forced  to  earn  money,  she  says  "I  have 
pressed  my  imagination  to  produce,  without  seeking  the 
concurrence  of  my  reason.  Instead  of  coming  to  me 
smiling  and  crowned  with  flowers,  my  Muse  has  met  me 
cold,  reluctant,  indignant,  dictating  to  me  only  sombre, 
bitter  pages,  icing  over  with  doubt  and  despair  all  the 
impulses  of  my  soul." 

Madame  Sand  took  an  active  part  in  the  political 
movements  of  1848,  and  when  this  new  excitement  was 
over,  she  found  refuge  in  an  idyl.  Her  nature  carries 
her  from  one  extreme  to  another.  She  has  revealed 
very  fair  dramatic  qualities,  and  several  of  her  pieces 


GEOEGE    SATfD.  99 

have  woTi  success  before  the  footliglits,  although  she 
has  enjoyed  no  brilliant  theatrical  triumph.  Mademoi- 
selle Rachel  did  not  love  her,  and  would  play  nothing 
of  hers.  The  great  tragedienne  declared  laughing,  that 
she  would  read  nothing  of  Madame  Sand's  for  fear  she 
might  be  forced  to  admire  her  too  much. 

Some  years  ago  George  Sand  published  a  "  History  of 
my  Life,"  in  which  happily,  she  has  given  herself  no  full- 
length  portrait.  "  The  Snow-Man,"  "  The  Chateau  of  the 
Desert,"  "  Adriane  "  "  Jean  de  la  Roche  "  "  Constance 
Verrier  "  "  The  Marquis  de  Villemer,"  and  "  Mademoi- 
selle de  Quintine,"  are  also  among  her  later  works.  The 
latter  a  decidedly  anti-religious  book,  proves  how  far  the 
author  is  from  her  predicted  conversion. 

Madame  Sand  lives  the  greater  portion  of  the  time  at 
her  chateau  of  Berri.  Aside  from  the  large  sum  earned 
in  literary  labor  she  has  an  income  of  twelve  thousand 
francs.  Always  surrounded  by  a  devoted  circle  of  friends 
and  admirers,  she  cares  for  little  that  goes  on  outside 
this-  circle,  and  confines  within  these  narrow  limits  all 
her  sympathy  and  all  her  benevolence.  Poor,  aspiring 
and  talented  young  authors  appeal  to  her  in  vain  for 
aid  and  encouragement.  She  makes  it  a  rule  to  send 
back  unopened  every  manuscript  that  is  offered  her  for 
perusal.  Is  it  right,  when  we  have  reached  the  summit 
thus  to  despise  those  who  struggle  at  its  base  ?  Where 
would  the  author  of  "  Indiana  "  now  be  if  she  had  not 
found  some  help  at  the  outset  ?  But  in  the  domain  of 
letters  as  well  as  in  that  of  the  air,  it  is  seldom  that  the 
sparrows  can  count  upon  the  eagles. 

The  chateau  of  Nohant  is  not  a  seignorial  house.  An 
almost  vulgar  simplicity  reigns  within  it,  and  the  furni- 
ture attests  the  filial  piety  of  the  chatelaine  rather  than 
her  taste  in  ornamental  things. 


100  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

You  see  here  needlework,  drawings,  sketches,  all  sou- 
venirs of  the  happy  triumphs  of  a  pampered  childhood. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  sleeps  little,  five  or  six  hours 
at  most.  All  the  rest  of  her  time  is  consecrated  to  liter- 
ary work.  Her  table  is  abundant  and  delicate,  her  ap- 
petite is  good,  her  mental  and  physical  vigor  are  re- 
markable for  one  of  her  years.  Surrounded  by  children 
and  grandchildren,  her  home  life  is  cheerful  and  happy. 
Silent  and  grave  herself,  she  loves  to  hear  conversation ; 
stories  and  bons  mots  find  in  her  a  smiling  and  benevo- 
lent auditor.  Occasionally  she,  too,  indulges  in  jests  and 
witty  sallies.  Her  son,  Maurice,  is  a  romancer  who  has 
written  several  popular  books.  Although  Madame  Sand 
is  past  her  seventieth  year,  her  literary  activity  still  re- 
mains unabated,  "  Ma  Sceur  Jeanne"  and  "  Flammarnde  " 
are  the  very  latest  of  her  works.  They  have  her  olden 
fascinations  of  style,  and  although  free  from  the  gross 
immorality  of  her  earlier  works,  they  are  still  excessive- 
ly French  in  tone  and  treatment.  Some  of  the  critics 
praise,  others  condemn.  ^ 

George  Sand  is  not  read  now  so  much  as  she  once 
was.  Take  out  that  spice  of  wickedness  which  flavors 
the  ordinary  French  novel,  and  to  very  many  readers 
its  charm  is  gone.  There  are  those  who  say  that  as  her 
moral  tone  has  become  elevated,  her  vigor  and  once 
matchless  style  have  deteriorated. 

A  recent  Parisian  letter-writer  who  met  Madame 
Sand  on  a  flying  visit  to  the  capital  where  she  very 
seldom  appears  of  late,  describes  her  as  having  grown 
fearfully  ugly.  She  is  old,  and  yet  above  all  things  she 
hates  old  age ;  she  cannot  live  long,  and  yet  she  shud- 
ders at  the  idea  of  death.  She  must,  we  think,  be  bur- 
dened with  a  consciousness  of  transcendent  gifts  un- 
worthily employed ;  she  must  feel  that  to  the  world  she 


GEORGE     SAND.  101 

is  so  soon  to  leave,  she  has  done  more  harm  than  good. 
If  in  her,  the  culture  of  the  heart  had  equalled  that  of 
the  intellect,  if  the  Christian  graces  had  kept  pace  with 
the  mental  graces,  the  heavenly  with  the  worldly  aspir- 
ratioiis,  these  declining  years,  so  full  of  sadi\ess,  might 
have  been  the  serene,  starry  evening  that  succeeds  the 
heated,  toilsome  day,  and  death  no  angel  of  wrath  but 
a  messenger  of  love. 


—(^Y-^  '^^ .  ^  - 


ALFRED  DE  MUSSET. 


All  records  of  the  French  noblesse  make  mention  of 
the  De  Musset  family,  and  there  is  no  need  here  to  re- 
cord the  genealogy  of  the  poet  who  renders  this  name 
illustrious.  Upon  the  list  of  his  ancestors  is  a  certain 
Calvin  de  Musset,  who  was  a  poet  and  musician,  and  in- 
timate fiiend  of  Thibout,  the  poet-king  of  Navarre. 
But  we  need  not  go  back  to  the  time  of  Queen  Blanche, 
to  seek  a  gift  for  poetry  and  letters  among  the  ancestors 
of  Alfred  de  Musset.  His  maternal  grandfather,  a  learn- 
ed lawyer,  in  the  interval  of  grave  pursuits,  paid  court  to 
the  muses,  and  Alfred's  father  a  soldier  under  the  First 
Consul,  and  afterwards  Minister  of  the  Interior,  found 
in  literature  a  relief  from  the  burdens  of  military  and 
civic  duties.  He  published  several  works,  the  best 
known  being  a  Life  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau.  He  al- 
so wrote  verses,  particularly  excelling  in  those  of  a  bur- 
lesque cl>aracter. 

Alfred  de  Musset  was  born  in  Paris,  December  11th, 
1810.  At  the  age  of  tluree  years  his  beauty  attracted 
the  attention  of  all,  and  a  Flemish  painter.  Van  Briee, 
begged  permission  to  paint  his  portrait.  This  picture  is 
to-day  in  the  possession  of  his  family. 

Until  the  age  of  nine  years,  Alfred's  education  had 

•Life  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  bj  his  brother. 


ALFRED    DE    MUSSET.  103 

been  intrusted  to  his  motlier,  a  woman  of  rare  virtues 
and  accomplisliments,  and  to  private  tutors  ;  he  then  en- 
tered the  college  of  Henry  IV.  finding  himself  the  young- 
est and  most  advanced  of  a  class  of  sixteen.  Paul  Fou- 
cher,  the  brother-in-law  of  Victor  Hugo,  was  his  friend 
and  schoolmate,  and  when  Alfred  was  but  seventeen,  in- 
troduced him  into  the  literary  Cenacle  of  which  Victor 
Hugo  was  chief.  He  was  received  by  the  Hugos  as  one 
of  the  family  and  often  invited  to  dine  with  them.  This 
intimacy  lasted  four  years — ^years  always  dear  to  the  re- 
membrance of  the  younger  of  the  two  poets. 

As  his  father  did  not  urge  his  immediate  choice  of  a 
career,  Alfred  profited  by  the  delay,  and  engaged  in  va- 
rious studies.  He  attended  a  course  of  lectures  upon 
law,  and  one  upon  anatomy,  and  took  lessons  in  drawing, 
painting,  music  and  the  English  language,  at  the  same 
time  strengthening  his  mind  by  useful  reading.  At  the 
end  of  a  year,  being  questioned  by  his  father  as  to  his 
intentions,  he  confessed  with  great  humility,  that  he 
had  no  taste  for  a  profession,  that  he  felt  drawn  only  to 
pursuits  which  could  lead  to  nothing,  that  is  to  say  to 
the  arts  and  poetry. 

De  Miisset  pere,  having  little  faith  in  Alfred's  pros- 
pects as  artist  or  poet,  forced  him  to  enter  a  bank  as 
copyist.  But  this  did  not  long  endure.  Soon  recogniz- 
ing the  poetic  gifts  of  his  son,  he  did  not  seek  to  turn 
him  from  his  true  vocation. 

Alfred  passed  all  his  evenings  at  the  Cenacle.  After 
having  played  for  some  time  the  role  of  auditor,  he  had 
a  desire  to  compose  and  read  ballads  in  his  turn.  His 
first  lengthy  effort  was  "  Don  Paez."  An  evening  was 
given  to  its  formal  reading.  Since  leaving  college  the 
student  had  become  transformed  into  the  dandy.  He 
came  to  the  Cenacle  on   this   all   important   occasion, 


104  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  with  dainty  frills  and 
a  D'Orsay  hat.  The  audience  was  ardent  and  enthusi- 
astic.    "  Don  Paez  "  was  received  with  frantic  applause. 

The  meetings  of  the  Cenacle,  which  had  now  begun 
to  be  holden  in  two  or  three  different  salons,  were  not 
exclusively  given  to  literature.  Dancing  Avas  sometimes 
kept  up  until  dawn,  for  a  plenty  of  young  girls  lent  the 
charm  of  their  presence  to  these  reunions.  At  one  of 
these  soirees,  Sainte  Beuve  seeing  the  author  of  "  Don 
Paez  "  dancing  with  juvenile  ardor,  dedicated  to  him  his 
verses  entitled  "  The  Ball." 

In  1829,  De  Musset  added  a  new  poem,  "  Mardoche," 
to  the  pieces  already  so  well  known  to  his  friends,  and 
they  were  published  in  a  volume.  In  reading  these 
poems,  grave  people  frowned.  "  Can  it  be,"  said  they, "  that 
a  young  man  of  nineteen  years,  writes  all  this  from  his 
own  experience?  " — No,  he  did  not  thus  write.  As  yet, 
he  knew  almost  nothing  of  life.  These  Andelusian  pas- 
sions were  only  youthful  dreams,  these  railing,  cavalier 
airs  were  only  pretence,  this  profligacy  was  only  poetic 
license.  All  this  existed  only  in  his  head,  and  women, 
more  clairvoyant  than  pedants,  well  perceived  here  the 
very  proofs  of  innocence  and  ingenuousness. 

The  blonde  poet  of  the  "  Spanish  and  Italian  Tales,'' 
found  a  most  enthusiastic  reception  in  the  salons  of 
Paris.  Flattery  and  adulation  everywhere  attended  him. 
But  his  happiness  was  not  without  alloy.  One  of  his 
pieces  was  hissed  at  the  Odeon,  and  from  the  reception 
given  to  some  other  dramatic  efforts,  he  began  to  think 
that  the  theatres  did  not  desire  his  work.  He  found  in 
lyric  poetry  his  consolation,  and  published  many  pieces 
in  the  Revue  de  Paris. 

In  1851  he  wrote  several  critical  and  fictitious  arti- 
cles for  the   Temps.    By  turns  laborious  and  dissipated, 


ALFKED    DE    MUSSET.  105 

he  worked  with  incredible  ardor,  if  nothing  came  to  dis- 
tract his  thoughts.  The  labor  once  finished  or  interrup- 
ted, the  poet  again  relapsed  into  the  dandy.  His  friends, 
richer  than  he,  too,  often  drew  him  from  his  books.  He 
could  not  conceal  his  aristocratic  tastes.  All  places  con- 
secrated to  fashion  exercised  an  irresistible  attraction 
over  him.  At  the  Opera,  the  Theatre-Italien,  the  Bou- 
levard de  Gand,  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  the  most  distin- 
guished men  then  met  for  play,  for  revels  extended  far 
into  the  night.  To  move  at  ease  upon  this  dangerous 
ground,  a  fashionable  coat  did  not  suffice;  one  must 
have  his  pockets  well  garnished  with  money.  "When 
this  indispensable  requisite  failed  him,  the  young  dandy 
was  happily  obliged*  to  return  to  his  work. 

In  1832,  Alfred  de  Musset  lost  his  father.  This  event 
marks  a  turning  point  in  his  life ;  it  changes  the  whole 
course  of  his  ideas.  He  resolved  to  conquer  a  new  po- 
sition. His  talent  had  ripened,  and  he  wrote  three 
poems  very  different  from  his  "  Spanish  Tales."  They 
were  "  The  Cup  and  the  Lip  "  "  Of  What  do  Young 
Girls  Dream  ?  "  and  "  Namouna."  They  appeared  in 
one  volume  in  1833.  From  this  moment  dates  his  sepa- 
ration from  the  romantic  school.  No  more  triumphant 
evenings !  No  more  enthusiastic  cheers !  But  he  con- 
soled himself  in  thinking  that  he  should  also  be  relieved 
from  sterile  discussions.  "  I  have  played  with  words  long 
enough,"  he  said,  "  I  desire  now  to  feel,  to  think,  to  ex- 
press freely,  without  submitting  to  the  rule  of  any  order, 
without  depending  upon  any  church." 

This  independence  caused  great  wrath.  Alfred  de 
Musset  was  regarded  as  a  deserter,  a  refugee.  These 
were  severe  words  to  apply  to  a  young  man  because  he 
wished  to  arrange  the  metres  of  his  own  verses,  and  rec- 
ognized some  merit  in  the  poetry  of  Racine. 

5  iJ 


106  LIFE    POKTRAITS. 

A  little  after  the  publication  of  these  new  poems,  M. 
BuIqs,  of  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes^  came  to  secure 
the  assistance  of  their  author,  and  from  this  visit  ensued 
relations  which  death  alone  interrupted.  The  first  work 
of  Alfred  de  Musset  for  this  Review  was  "  Andrea  del 
Sarto."  The  comedy,  "  Marianne's  Caprices "  fol- 
lowed and  three  months  later,  "  Rolla  "  appeared. 
Stendhal  greatly  admired  this  poem,  declaring  that  it 
filled  a  gap  in  French  literature,  being  the  French  equi- 
valent for  "  Faust "  and  "  Manfred  "  of  which  Germany 
and  England  are  so  justly  proud.  Its  author  was  only 
twenty-two  years  old. 

In  the  autumn  of  1835,  Alfred  de  Musset  departed 
for  Italy.  He  returned  the  April  following,  scarce  re- 
covered from  a  brain  fever  of  which  he  had  come  near 
dying  at  Venice.  Feeble  as  he  was  through  the  year 
1834,  he  had  written  two  of  his  most  remarkable  works 
"  One  May  not  Fool  with  Love,"  and  "  Lorenzaccio." 
One  of  his  friends  having  remarked  to  him,  that  in 
the  first  of  these  two  works,  certain  details  seemed 
to  belong  to  the  last  century,  others  to  the  present  time, 
he  answered  smiling,  "  Can  you  teli  me  of  what  time 
man  is,  and  under  what  reign  woman  has  lived  ?  "  The 
latter  work,  dealing. with  events  in  Florence  under  the 
sway  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  is  not  yet  known  and  ap- 
preciated as  it  deserves  to  be.  While  this  poem  was 
going  through  the  press,  Alfred  went  to  Baden,  seeking 
relaxation  for  four  months  of  hard  work  and  strict  seclu- 
sion in  his  study.  From  this  journey  he  brought  back 
the  subject  of  his  poem.  "A  Good  Fortune,"  proving 
that  the  relaxation  had  borne  excellent  fruits. 

The  year  1835  is-  one  of  the  most  fruitful  as  well  as 
one  of  the  most  agitated  in  the  life  of  Alfred  de  Musset. 
Junelst  he  published  "  Lucia  "    arid  a  fortnight  after 


ALFEED    DE    MUSSET.  107 

t'  The  Night  of  May."  Then  come  "  Barberina's  Distaff," 
and  •"  The  Confessions  of  a  Child  of  the  Century." 
Between  these  glowing  pages  where  he  traced  so  sombre 
a  picture  of  the  evils  of  despair,  he  interrupted  himself 
to  improvise  in  a  few  days,  "  The  Chandelier,"  which  is 
assuredly  one  of  his  merriest  comedies. 

About  this  time,  Alfred  de  Musset  fell  in  love  with 
the  pretty  woman  to  whom  he  addresses  the  stanzas 
''To  Ninon."  Jealousy  on  his  part  caused  the  ship- 
wreck of  this  love.  He  was  stunned  by  the  blow,  but 
only  for  the  moment.  Happily  it  is  not  always  true 
that  "  The  mouth  keeps  silence  when  the  heart  speaks ! " 
The  first  cry  torn  from  this  new  wound  is  the  "  Decem- 
ber Night,"  which  is  no  continuation  of  the  "  Night  of 
May,"  and  has- its  source  in  sentiments  of  a  very  differ- 
ent order.  This  beloved  one  is  no  other  than  the  Emme- 
line  of  the  "  Confessions."  She  occupies  a  considerable 
place  in  the  works  of  Alfred  de  Musset ;  to  her  we  owe  two 
of  his  most  admired  poems,  and  his  best  prose  writings. 

Musset  had  still  one  lady  friend  whose  almost  mater- 
nal affection  was  extremely  dear  to  him.  The  Duchess 
de  Castries,  to  all  the  advantages  of  intellect  united  the 
rare  qualities  of  a  noble  character.  Chained  to  her  arm- 
chair by  an  incurable  malady  of  which  she  never  spoke, 
always  occupied  with  others  in  the  midst  of  incessant 
sufferings,  this  courageous  woman  existed  only  through 
the  heart  and  the  intelligence.  Her  life  was  a  continual 
example  of  patience  and  resignation,  and  this  example 
could  not  fail  to  exercise  some  influence  over  the  most 
impatient  young  fellow  in  the  world.  She  had  a  very 
small  court  composed  of  young  women  and  intimate 
friends,  who  came  to  divert  and  console  her.  Alfred  da 
Musset  saw  her  very  often.  "  When  I  have  need  of  coiir- 
age,"  said  he,  "  I  know  where  il  is  to  be  found."     The 


108  LIFE    PORTEAITS. 

duchess  read  a  great  deal,  slie  was  conversant  with  all 
the  literary  novelties,  which  she  criticized  for  herself 
with  a  pure,  even  severe  taste,  and  with  a  judgment 
perfectly  Avell  informed.  Upon  the  evening  of  the  first 
representation  of  "  A  Caprice,"  she  went  to  hear  it.  De- 
spite her  age  and  infirmities,  she  survived  the  poet 
she  had  loved  as  a  son.  None  ever  dared  speak  ill  of 
Alfred  de  Musset  in  her  presence. 

Musset's  writings  in  1836,  show  that  he  was  then  en- 
joying great  freedom  of  heart  and  mind.  First  comes 
"  We  Should  Swear  by  Nothing,"  the  "  August  Night," 
and  "Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Malibran,"  follow.  In  these 
latter  lines  he  had  to  express  a  general  sentiment,  and 
regrets  shared  by  all  the  world.  This  time  his  poetical 
sensibility  was  moved  by  the  sorrow  of  others  rather 
than  his  oAvn.  In  his  "  Letters  from  Two  Dwellers  in 
the  Fertfe  sous  Jouarre;  "  he  treats  several  questions  of 
literary  criticism  with  a  comic  verve  and  a  sort  of  wit  that 
recalls  Paul  Louis  Courier.  These  essays  excited  great 
curiosity ;  their  continuation  was  demanded,  but  our 
poet  had  little  taste  for  criticism.  In  his  opinion  the 
best  warfare  to  wage  upon  bad  books  is  to  produce  good 
ones.  He  abandoned  the  Letters,  and  wrote  "  A  Caprice." 
All  the  world  knows  the  whimsical  fortune  of  this 
comedy.  In  its  journey  from  the  ofiice  of  the  Ilevue 
des  Dexu  Mondes  to  the  Rue  Richelieu  the  "  Caprice'' 
passed  through  Saint-Petersburg,  and  was  ten  years  on 
the  way. 


ALFKED    DE    MUSSET.  109 


II. 

Alfred  do  Musset  was  naturally  confiding  and  even 
credulous. 

Se  defendant  de  croire  au  mal, 
Comme  d'un  crime. 

As  he  wrote  in  one  of  his  last  poems.  But  he  could 
not  rely  upon  himSelf  to  ignore  what  experience  had 
taught  him.  From  a  lesson  of  deception  came  the  "  Oc- 
tober Night,"  which  may  be  considered  a  continuation' of 
the  "  May  Night,"  although  written  two  years  after. 

Up  to  this  time  Musset  had  written  no  novels.  He 
wished  to  attempt  this  species  of  literature  which  Boc- 
caccio, Cervantes  and  Merimee,  have  elevated  to  the 
level  of  poetry,  comedy  and  tragedy.  The  first  subject 
which  occurred  to  him  was  "  Emmeline."  The  success 
of  this  recital  encouraged  him.  In  the  eighteen  months 
following  the  first  of  August,  1839,  he  composed  six 
novels,  whose  titles  it  is  needless  to  repeat  here.  The 
one  the  author  esteemed  best  is  the  "  Fils  de  Lilien;  " 
he  had  remarked  the  subject  at  the  same  time  as  that  of 
*'  Andre  del  Sarto,"  in  a  history  of  Italian  painting. 
When  he  had  finished  these  srx  little  romances,  he  stop- 
ped, saying  he  had  enough  of  prose.  But  during  these 
eighteen  months  he  had  not  neglected  poetry ;  upon 
three  different  occasions,  he  had  returned  to  his  first 
love. 

One  day,  upon  opening  a  volume  of  Spinoza,  he  felt 
greatly  incensed  at  the  demonstrative  formulas  of  thi* 
philosopher,  and  in  spirit  engaged  in  a  discussion  with 
him.  This  redoubtable  reasoner  had  not  the  power  to 
persuade  him.     Once  upon  this  ground,  he  set  himself 


110  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

to  reading,  night  and  day,  with  his  habitual  ardor,  all 
the  books  which  have  -  treated  of  that  it  is  forbidden 
man  to  know.  This  grand  problem  had  often  agitated 
him.  Never  had  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  heaven  to  contem- 
plate the  infinite,  without  experiencing  a  sort  of  resent 
ment  at  seeing  and  still  not  comprehending.  At  such 
a  moment  he  must  have  uttered  his  despairing  cry  ? 

"I  cannot  rest;  despite  myself,  the  infinite  torments 
me." 

But  at  another  moment  of  poetic  exaltation,  he  replied 
to  the  great  skeptical  thinkers  with  whom  he  had 
been  mentally  contending,  by  his  poem,  "  Hope  in  God." 

In  1837,  Alfred  de  Musset  received  the  offer  of  a 
place  as  attache  to  the  Spanish  embassy  at  Madrid.  His 
talents,  his  personal  appearance,  his  perfect  knowledge 
of  the  world,  rendered  him  peculiarly  fitted  for  such  a 
post.  Some  years  earlier,  he  would  have  been  delighted 
to  accept  it;  but  now,  although  still  very  young,  he 
could  not  summon  courage  to  break  the  ties  of  habit, 
family  and  friendship  which  bound  him  to  Parisian  life. 
His  refusal  gave  no  offence,  and  he  testified  his  gratitude 
for  the  good  intentions  of  the  Prince  Royal,  through 
whom  this  honor  had  been  offered  him,  by  publishing  a 
poem  on  the  birth  of  the  Count  de  Paris,  which  did  not 
contain  a  single  line  of  flattery. 

At  the  close  of  the  year  1838,  two  newly-risen  stars 
of  the  first  lustre  dawned  upon  Paris.  Pauline  Garcia, 
aged  eighteen,  arrived  from  Brussels,  and  began  to  sing 
in  some  salons,  Rachel  also  made  her  first  appearance  at 
the  Comedie  Fran^aise.  Alfred  de  Musset  took  an  ex- 
treme interest  in  the  success  of  these  young  artistes. 
When  he  saw  Rachel  attacked  by  the  dramatic  critics, 
he  was  stirred  up  to  break  lances  in  her  defence.  Rachel, 
pleased  witli  such  championship,  made  the  poet  promise 


ALFRED   DE   MUSSET.  Ill 

to  wnte  her  a  tragedy ;  but  ere  it  was  finished,  this  in- 
constant woman  seemed  to  have  changed  her  mind,  or 
■to  have  forgotten  all  about  the  matter.  Two  or  three 
times,  guided  by  a  vague  instinct,  she  returned  to  Mus- 
set  for  a  rOle,  and  he,  seduced  by  her  grace  and  those 
wonderful  powers  of  fascination  she  knew  so  well  how 
to  exercise,  when  caprice  or  interest  demanded,  only  too 
readily  promised  to  fulfil  her  request.  But  the  desired 
role  was  scarce  begun  ere  she  would  again  relapse  into 
indifference  and  neglect.  For  this  reason,  these  two  whose 
accord  would  have  been  so  fruitful  to  the  world  of  art, 
became  involved  in  a  serious  quarrel,  and  were  reconciled 
only  on  the  eve  of  Rachel's  departure  for  America.  The 
relations  between  Pauline  Garcia  and  Musset  were 
most  friendly,  the  cantatrice  finding  in  the  poet  a  warm 
admirer  and  indulgent  critic.  But  the  public  received 
the  young  singer  somewhat  coldly,  and  she  resolved  to 
seek  her  fortiine  in  foreign  lands.  Musset's  verses  en- 
titled "  Adieu,"  seem  to  have  been  addressed  to  Mile.. 
Garcia  on  her  departure  for  England  or  Russia. 

As  on  one  side  the  beautiful  illusions  vanished,  on 
the  other  came  anxieties  of  incontestable  reality.  As  a 
result  of  his  abandonment  of  prose  Musset  was  now 
suffering  from  financial  embarrassment.  Though  habit- 
ually lavish  in  his  expenditures,  a  debt,  to  a  nature  like 
his,  was  a  remorse.  The  debt  once  contracted,  his  most 
simple  method  of  defraying  it  was  to  set  about  writing 
a  goodly  number  of  pages.  But  enforced  composition 
is  not  well  for  poets,  and  Musset  did  not  wish  to  attempt 
it.  One  day,  he  conceived  the  idea  of  seeking  a  remedy 
for  his  sufferings  in  writing  a  recital  of  a  poet  condemn- 
ed  by  necessity  to  work  at  that  which  he  despised.  He 
wrote  forty  pages  on  this  subject,  pages  of  heart-rending 
pathos.     They  met  no  eye  but  that  of  his  brother  and 


112  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

his  friend  Tattet.  An  unforeseen  event  relieved  our 
poet  from  embarrassment,  and  the  work  was  never  finish- 
ed. M.  Charpentier  came  to  him  with  a  proposal  to 
issue  an  editix)n  of  hi^  works  which  would  bring  them 
within  the  reach  of  persons  of  small  fortune.  The  works 
issued  in  this  form,  made  a  revolution  in  the  book  trade, 
and  passed  through  twenty  editions. 

In  the  midst  of  his  financial  troubles,  Musset  had 
found  an  obstinate  pleasure  in  obeying  the  unlucrative 
caprices  of  his  Muse.  During  these  six  agitated  months, 
sonnets,  songs  and  idyls  came  faster  than  ever  from  his 
pen,  but  the  only  one  of  these  pieces  known  to  the  pub- 
lic is  the  "  Adieu."  He  found  a  peculiar  charm  in  these 
little  compositions,  because  they  did  not  seem  work, 
and  changed  into  poetry  passing  impressions  and  un- 
foreseen circumstances. 

Criticism  then  was  no  more  avaricious  of  praises  than 
it  is  to-day  ;  it  lavished  them  with  the  same  profusion 
upon  charlatanism  and  mediocrity,  but  it  did  not  fail 
to  deny  to  Alfred  de  Musset  the  rank  that  was  his  due 
so  long  as  such  denial  was  in  its  power.  Now,  chiding 
his  modesty,  it  treated  him  as  a  school-boy  from  whom 
something  might  be  hoped  in  the  future ;  now  it  asked 
him  when  he  would  end  his  essays,  and  give  the  world 
the  full  measure  of  his  talent.  From  1838  to  1841,  ho 
had  published,  besides  his  two  first  volumes  of  poetry, 
thirty-five  works  of  great  diversity  of  character,  which 
to-day  do  honor  to  French  literature  in  all  the  countries 
of  the  earth.  Musset,  deeply  feeling  the  injustice  of  the 
critics,  declared  that  he  had  for  years  been  a  literary 
man  by  profession,  and  had  performed  all  the  duties  of 
that  office ;  that  henceforth,  he  would  be  a  poet  and 
nothing  but  a  poet,  that  he  would  write  verses  when 
he  felt  in  the  mood  for  it,  but  nothing  more.  His  fiiends 
expostulated,  but  it  was  in  vain. 


ALFRED    DE   MUSSET.  113 

Imagmative  literature  had  then  reached  one  of  its 
climacteric  epochs.  The  journals  had  instituted  the 
serial  romance.  At  an  early  age  the  monster  gave 
evidence  of  what  enormities  it  would  be  capable  as  it 
grew  to  maturity.  "  When  Racine  and  Moliere  wrote 
for  Louis  XIV.  and  his  court,"  said  Alfred  de  Musset, 
"  they  had  to  satisfy  an  exacting  public,  too  refined, 
perhaps,  often  frivolous  and  disdainful,  but  the  very 
difficulty  of  pleasing  kept  the  artist  or  writer  wide 
awake,  and  forced  him  to  do  his  best.  To-day,  one  has 
only  to  amuse  an  ignorant  mob.  Why  speak  good  French 
to  it  ?  It  would  not  understand.  As  for  myself,  I  have 
nothing  to  say  to  this  mob." 

In  fine,  to  all  arguments  for  breaking  his  silence  he 
replied  with  better  ones  for  keeping  it.  But  when  the 
Muse  came  of  her  own  accord  to  seek  him,  he  received 
her  gladly.  A  public  misfortune  changed  his  ill-humor 
and  ennui  into  discouragement.  He  had  a  sincere  affec- 
tion for  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  and  had  built  great  hopes 
on  the  future  reign  of  this  young  prince ;  hopes  not  for 
himself,  but  for  art  and  letters.  More  than  once  his  old 
schoolfellow  had  said  to  him  that  although  there  could 
be  no  new  renaissance,  they  might  be  sure  of  seeing  again 
in  France  a  court  amorous  of  beautiful  things,  and 
absorbed  in  intellectual  pleasures.  Suddenly,  he  found 
that  these  hopes  were  only  chimeras.  He  felt  a  profound 
sorrow  at  the  death  of  the  prince  royal,  a  sorrow  which 
for  a  year  he  could  find  no  words  to  express.  Then  he 
poured  forth  his  love,  his  admiration  and  Kfs  regret. 

He  had  not  published  a  line  of  prose  for  three  years, 
when  he  consented  to  write  for  an  editor  who  had  shown 
him  great  friendship,  the  "  Merle  Blanc."  Designing 
only  a  bagatelle,  he  composed  a  little  masterpiece,  of 
subtle  allegory  and  harmless  criticism.     Later,  the  same 


114  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

editor  obtained  from  him  the  little  stoiy  of  "Mimi 
Pinson  "  for  an  illustrated  publication. 

Alfred  de  Musset  had  no  great  zeal  for  the  service  of 
the  National  Guard.  They  shut  up  the  recalcitrant  poet 
in  prison,  and  he  rhymed  gaily  on  his  captivity.  He  was 
soon  released.  Weary  of  reproaches  for  his  idleness,  but 
resolved  to  write  only  as  the  impulse  seized  him,  in  the 
spring  of  1845,  he  fled  to  his  maternal  uncle,  a  subprefect 
in  the  Vosges.  He  visited  many  places,  roaming 
over  the  mountains  and  from  town  to  town.  Three 
months  away  from  Paris  was  a  great  deal  for  him  ;  he 
returned  in  August. 

Since  the  death  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  a  sort  of 
languor  and  palsy  had  stricken  all.  Lamartine  had  said 
that  France  was  ennuj^ed  at  this  time,  and  Musset  felt 
the  lamentable  truth  of  the  words.  He  regretted  having 
been  born  in  this  age  of  transition,  amid  a  distracted 
generation  with  no  passion  but  for  money  and  -stock- 
jobbing, no  taste  but  for  bric-^-brac.  People  then  spoke 
less  modestly  than  to-day  of  tlie  progress  of  our  age ;  the 
conquests  of  science  over  matter  had  not  consqled  them 
for  the  loss  of  the  ideal.  Our  poet  sought  around  him  for 
some  flash  of  genius,  and  found  it  only  in  the  impersona- 
tions of  Rachel.  He  did  not  miss  one  of  them.  Later, 
when  Madame  Ristori  came  to  France,  he  saw  her  thirty 
times  in  the  rSle  of  Mirra.  Italian  music  remained  one 
of  his  consolations.  "  Without  Rossini  and  Rachel,  it 
would  not  be  worth  while  to  live,"  he  often  said.  He 
did  not  dream  of  ranking  himself  among  the  brilliant 
lights  of  poetry  and  genius.  "  I  know  that  I  am  making 
my  furrow  in  this  wearisome  age,"  he  said,  "  but  they 
will  perceive  it  only  after  my  death." 

The  public  took  his  silence  and  his  disdain  for  inability. 
These  malevolent  insmuations  could  have  upon  a  mind 


ALFRED    DE   MUSSET.  115 

haaghty  as  his,  no  other  effect  thf^n  to  augment  his 
disdain  and  his  silence.  From  1845  to  1847,  he  published 
nothing  but  three  or  four  sonnets ;  yet  these  were  of  his 
best,  as  if  to  show  the  world  that  his  silence  was  volunta- 
ry, and  that  his  muse  had  lost  neither  verve  nor  gayety. 

An  unexpected  event  somewhat  changed  this  disdain- 
ful mood.  Madame  Allan-Desproux  was  playing  the 
"  Caprice "  in  Saint  Petersburgh,  and  the  manager  of 
the  Theatre  Fran9ais  wished  its  representation  in  Paris. 
The  great  actress  was  prevailed  upon  to  assume  the 
principal  role,  and  the  success  of  the  piece  proved  that 
the  public  had  still  a  taste  for  Musset's  refined  works. 
Other  pieces  of  his  followed,  adding  greatly  to  his  reputa- 
tion. 

This  tardy  stroke  of  fortune  roused  Musset  from  his 
contemptuous  indifference,  and  gave  him  a  new  heart 
for  work.  He  wrote  several  comedies,  among  them 
"  Carmosine,"  which  he  considered  one  of  his  best. 

Mile.  Rachel  was  like  the  Roman  women  she  repre- 
sented so  well,  who,  according  to  Plutarch,  ran  after 
fortunate  people.  Seeing  the  success  of  Musset's  late 
pieces,  she  again  besieged  him  for  a  r61e.  She  went  to  see 
him,  she  several  times  invited  him  to  dinner,  she  wrote 
him  almost  tender  letters.  She  did  better  than  to  urge 
him  to  write  her  a  rSle,  she  inspired  him.  He  decided 
upon  "  Faustina  "  as  his  subject.  But  unhappily  his 
piece  "  Bcttina,"  just  then  being  represented  at  the 
Gymnasium,  was  coldly  received,  and  Rachel  changed 
her  mind.  The  invitations,  the  visits,  the  gracious  notes, 
all  ceased.  Rachel  demanded  nothing  more,  and  feigned 
to  have  forgotten  her  author,  as  she  had  been  calling 
Musset  in  her  letters.  "  Faustina  "  was  never  finished. 
It  exists  as  a  fragment  among  our  author's  posthumous 
works.     The  fragment  is  so  excellent,  that  we  know  not 


116  LIFE  POETRAITS. 

wMch  most  to  deplore,  the  inconstancy  of  the  great 
actress  or  the  excessive  sensibility  of  the  poet. 

The  Academy  opened  its  doors  to  Alfred  de  Musset, 
and  when  he  pronounced  his  eulogy  upon  M.  Dupaty, 
whom  he  succeeded,  all  were  astonished  at  his  fine 
manners  and  his  youth.  But  few  of  the  members  had 
known  him  before,  except  by  name.  His  next  work  was 
"  Augustus,  Dream,"  a  poem  afterwards  set  to  music  for 
the  stage  by  Gounod.  The  Moniteur  demanded  a  novel ; 
he  wrote  La  Mouche,  a  fresh,  graceful  composition. 
The  following  year,  he  wrote  his  last  work,  L'Ane  et 
le  Ruisseau. 

In  childhood  Alfred  de  Musset  had  been  subject  to 
palpitations  of  the  heart  of  an  alarming  character,  but 
at  twenty,  he  enjoyed  such  robust  health  that  fatigue  was 
unknown  to  him.  After  1840,  he  had  an  occasional 
touch  of  the  old  malady,  and  a  severe  regimen  was 
prescribed  to  him,  which  he  would  not  follow.  When 
a  year  or  two  before  his  death,  he  was  reproached  by 
his  brother  for  trifling  with  life  and  health,  he  answered, 
"  I  have  already  passed  the  age  when  1  would  have 
been  glad  to  die."  In  1855,  the  progress  of  the  disease 
became  rapid.  A  frequent  sensation  of  stoppage  at  the 
heart  was  the  certain,  sign  of  an  aifection  of  the  aortic 
valves.  But  none  thought  death  so  near,  when  on  the 
night  of  May  2d,  1857,  his  heart  ceased  to  beat  forever. 
He  had  died,  thinking  he  was  falling  asleep,  in  his  very 
last  moments  preoccupied  with  his  brother's  interests 
more  than  with  his  own,  and  forming  projects  for  a 
distant  future  they  were  both  to  share. 

'Alfred  de  Musset  was  of  medium  height,  elegant  in 
form,  with  an  exquisite  ease  and  polish  of  manner. 
He  had  blonde  hair,  naturally  curling  and  very  abundant, 
a  complexion  of  rare  frcohness,  an  aquiline  nose,  blue 


ALFRED   DE   MUSSET.  117 

ej  es,  a  firm  glance,  an  expressive  mouth.  To  his  last 
day,  "  he  had  the  May  upon  his  cheeks  "  like  Fantasio, 
and  he  appeared  younger  than  he  really  was.  In  con- 
versation he  A7as  ordinarily  witty  and  gay,  laughing  with- 
out effort.  He  knew  how  to  draw  out  others,  and  to 
place  all  around  him  at  their  ease.  He  threw  a  charm 
over  even  the  simplest  subject,  and  you  often  perceived 
the  profundity  of  his  thoughts  only  in  musing  upon 
them  after  his  departure.  With  women  he  was  an 
especial  favorite,  and  young  girls  took  great  delight  in 
his  society,  so  diverting  and  yet  so  elevating. 

His  natural  inclination  for  all  the  arts  was  so  great, 
that  if  poetry  had  not  been  his  imperious  vocation,  his 
genius  would  have  found  expression  elsewhere.  His 
family  and  friends  have  preserved  some  very  remarkable 
drawings  by  his  hand.  Passing  a  month  at  the  chateau 
of  his  cousin,  Adolphe  de  Musset,  he  filled  two  albums 
with  pictures ;  they  are,  for  the  most  part,  caricatures  of 
very  striking  resemblance,  and  were  executed  fi-ora 
memory  with  a  boldness  and  freedom  of  touch  in  which 
we  recognize  the  designer  and  the  painter. 

Alfred  de  Musset  never  deserted  poetry ;  he  knew  no 
weariness  of  verse,  which  he  has  called  "  that  limpid 
and  beautiful  language,  the  world  neither  understands 
nor  speaks."  He  was  not  a  utilitarian,  Vat  he  was  useful 
in  teaching  men  to  see  clearly  into  their  own  souls,  in 
clothing  in  sublime,  beautiful  words,  what  they  felt 
without  the  power  of  expressing  it ;  in  securing  for  them 
precious  hours  of  forgetfulness,  of  consolation,  of  tender- 
ness and  of  amusement. 

The  day  following  his  death,  the  journals  were  unani- 
mous in  tlie  expressions  of  their  regret.  Fame,  which  he 
had  called 

"  Thnt  Inrdi/  platif,  a  lov<r  of  the  tmiib," 

sprang  up  upon  his  tomb,  and  with  such  ?plciidor  avid 


118  LIFE    POETRAITS. 

rapidity,  that  envy  soon  arose  more  wrathful  than  ever, 
His  works,  his  character,  his  private  life  even,  were 
assailed.  That  impious  warfare  still  endures,  but  it  will 
have  an  end.  The  assaults  of  his  detractors  already 
recoil  upon  themselves.  A  day  will  come  when  the 
life  of  this  poet  will  be  better  understood,  when  none  will 
dare  insult  his  memory.  The  world  will  then  render 
justice  to  him  who  no  longer  gives  umbrage  to  any  vanity. 
Alfred  de  Musset  never  did  wrong,  never  wished  wrong 
to  any  one.  He  was  amiable,  generous,  and  above  all, 
sincere.  He  too  could  have  spoken  of  himself  those 
words  of  deepest  meaning  which  he  has  placed  in  the 
mouth  of  Perdican:  "  It  is  I  who  have  lived,  and  not  a 
fictitious  being,  created  by  my  pride  or  my  ennui." 

To  the  perhaps  too  partial  estimate  of  liis  brother's 
character  given  by  M.  Paul  de  Musset,  we  append  these 
concluding  words  of  an  essay  upon  the  poet  by  Eugene 
de  Mirecourt : 

"  Alfred  de  Musset  was  an  erratic  poet,  a  victim  of 
the  corruption  of  others  rather  than  of  his  own.  It  is  he 
who  has  written  these  lines,  which  should  make  the 
boldest  youth  of  our  century  shudder: 

"  '  Poisoned  from  youth  with  the  writinsrs  of  the  ency- 
clopaedists, I  early  imbibed  the  sterile  milk  of  impiety. 
Human  pride,  that  god  of  insanity  and  egotism,  closed 
my  mouth  to  prayer.  How  miserable  are  those  men  who 
have  ever  railed  at  that  which  can  save  a  human  soul ! 
I  was  born  in  a  corrupt  age.  I  have  much  to  expiate. 
Pardon,  O  Christ,  those  who  blaspheme  ! '  " 

The  poet  grew  grave  and  sad  in  his  later  years.  They 
said  that  the  dignities  of  the  Academy  pressed  heavily 
upon  him,  little  dreaming  that  his  nature  had  grown 
deeper  and  more  reverent.  Had  he  lived,  he  would 
doubtless  have  expiated  the  literary  sins  of  his  youth. 


VICTOR  HUGO.* 

When  France  crosses  the  gulf  of  revolution,  it  is  rare 
that  she  does  not  disinherit  some  of  her  noblest  sons. 
Victor  Hugo,  like  Alighieri  driven  from  Florence  by  the 
Guelphs,  was  doomed  for  long  years  to  sigh  and  chafe 
upon  a  foreign  soil.  It  does  not  belong  to  us  to  write 
the  history  of  the  politician,  we  have  to  do  only  with 
that  of  the  poet. 

Of  an  ancient  and  valiant  family  of  Lorraine,  ennobled 
upon  the  battle-field,  Victor  Hugo  was  born  at  Besan- 
9on,  in  1803.  His  father,  a  general  in  the  service  of 
Joseph  Buonaparte,  then  king  of  Naples,  was  chosen  to 
conduct  the  warfare  against  Fra  Diavolo,  a  terrible 
brigand,  the  horror  of  all  Italy.  He  succeeded  in  rout- 
ing the  band,  and  then  accompanying  Joseph  Buona- 
parte to  Spain,  he  won  great  distinction  by  his  military 
science.  He  did  not  recross  the  Pyrenees  until  1814, 
when  Napoleon  sent  him  to  the  defence  of  Thionville. 
With  a  handful  of  men,  he  kept  back  the  entire  armies 
of  the  Cossacks  and  Prussians  from  the  ramparts  con- 
fided to  his  protection. 

In  early  childhood  Victor  Hugo  travelled  through 
Italy  and  Spain.     The  sun  of  the  South  with  its  most 

*  Portraits  et  Silhouettes.     Bj"  Eugene  de  Mirccoiirt. 


120  LIFE    PORTKAITS. 

ardent  rays,  warmed  tliis  young,  enthusiastic  head,  from 
which  poetry  was  ere  long  to  gush  forth  as  from  a  never- 
failing  fountain. 

Before  reaching  his  fifteenth  year,  the  boy  was  con- 
testant for  an  academic  prize.  The  Academy  declared 
that  in  presenting  himself  at  this  age,  he  had  mocked  at 
the  judges.  Messieurs,  the  Forty,  could  not  comprehend 
that  poetry  like  valor,  does  not  depend  on  the  number 
of  years.  The  prize  was  divided  between  Sain  tine  and 
Lebrun.  The  Academy  denied  Hugo  a  crown,  but  gave 
him  the  first  honorable  mention.  Indignant  at  this 
injustice,  he  sent  his  verses  to  Toulouse.  There  were 
three  poems,  and  he  won  three  successive  triumphs. 

He  lived  at  this  time  in  the  ancient  abbey  of  the 
Feuillantines ;  here  his  mother,  a  noble  and  gifted 
woman,  lavished  upon  him  the  treasures  of  her  love. 
The  gratitude  of  her  son  has  rendered  her  immortal. 
"We  say  the  mother  of  Victor  Hugo,  as  we  say  the 
mother  of  the  Gracchi,  the  mother  of  Saint-Louis.  A 
native  of  Vendee  and  a  roj^alist,  she  was  naturally  the 
first  muse  of  the  youthful  poet.  Some  of  his  finest 
poems  seem  but  echoes  of  the  maternal  heart.  When 
he  lost  his  mother,  he  was  nineteen  years  old.  During 
his  period  of  mourning,  he  wrote  that  book  of  so  sombre 
a  cast,  '■'■Han  d' Islande.,^''  whose  hero,  a  sort  of  Blue- 
Beard,  he  elevates  to  the  sublime ;  a  statue  outside  of 
nature,  but  hewn  in  granite.  This  romance  was  the 
signal  for  that  conflict  against  his  country  so  long  sus- 
tained by  Victor  Hugo,  and  from  which  he  was  to 
emerge  conqueror.  From  all  sides,  they  attacked  this 
audacious  youth,  who  shook  off  the  trammels  of  old 
tradition,  and  seemed  ready  to  proclaim  himself  chief 
of  a  school.  Hugo  numbered  his  enemies,  and  prepared 
his  arms. 


VICTOR    HUGO.  121 

At  this  time  he  passed  most  of  his  evenings  with  the 
father  of  Emile  Deschamps,  in  the  midst  of  a  chosen 
circle  He  was  very  timid,  but  under  this  timidity  lay 
a  grave,  almost  austere  dignity,  which  made  .a  vivid 
impression  upon  all,  and  was  a  presage  of  the  future. 
They  already  saluted  him  as  the  master.  At  these  re- 
unions he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  young  girl,  who 
awoke  his  heart  to  love.  He  married  this  Mile.  Foucher 
in  1823.  The  husband  was  twenty,  the  bride  fifteen. 
If  they  were  rich,  it  was  in  love,  youth  and  hope.  The 
adored  one  had  all  the  songs  of  the  poet  and  all  hia 
heart.     To  her  he  wrote  : 

C'est  toi  dont  le  regard  eclaire  ma  nuit  sombre, 

Toi  dout  I'image  luit  sur  mon  sommeil  joyeux ! 

C'est  toi  qui  tieiis  ma  main  quand  je  marche  dans  I'ombre, 

Et  les  raj'Ons  du  ciel  me  vienne  de  tes  yeux. 

Helas  I  je  t'aime  tant  qu'a  ton  nom  seul  je  pleure ; 

Je  pleure,  car  la  vie  est  si  pleine  de  maux 

Dans  ce  monie  desert  tu  n'as  point  demeure, 

Et  I'arbre  ou  Ton  s'assied  leve  ailleurs  des  rameaux. 

Mon  Dieu  !  mettez  la  paix  et  la  joie  aupres  d'elle; 
Ne  troublez  pas  ses  jours;  ils  sont  a  vous,  Seigneur  I 
Vous  devez  la  benir  car  son  ame  fidele 
Demande  a  la  vertu  le  secret  du  bonheur. 


"  Dear  one,  whose  glance  my  sombre  night  enlightens. 
Whose  image  beams  o'er  all  my  joyous  days  ; 
My  hand  in  thine,  the  deepest  shadow  brightens, 
For  from  thine  eyes  fall  heaven's  serenest  rays. 

*'  I  love  thee  so,  tears  from  my  eyes  come  welling; 
I  weep,  for  life  is  full  of  grief  and  care ; 
In  this  droar  desert  thou  canst  find  no  dwelling, 
The  tree  to  shelter  thee  grows  otherwhere. 
6 


122  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

"  My  God,  give  peace  and  joy  to  this  pure  spirit, 
Vex  not  her  days,  her  days  that  flow  from  thee ; 
Sure  loyal  souls  like  hers  must  bliss  inherit, 
They  ask  from  virtue  their  felicity." 

These  anxieties  of  the  poet  for  the  lot  of  his  young 
household  were  of  brief  duration.  The  first  edition  of 
"  Han  d'Islande,"  was  very  soon  exhausted,  the  second 
brought  ease  to  that  little  dwelling,  No.  42  Notre-Dame 
des-Champs,  that  poetical  abode  hidden  like  a  bird's- 
nest  amid  the  trees.  Two  lovely  children  had  come  to 
lend  new  delight  to  this  happy  home.  Here  the  youth- 
ful wife  and  mother  gracefully  welcomed  the  large  circle 
of  friends  the  rising  poet  and  author  gathered  around 
him.  This  circle  which  had  for  its  leading  spirits  such 
men  as  Dumas,  Alfred  de  Vigny,  Mery  and  Sainte- 
Beuve,  had  begun  to  form  a  powerful  art-coterie  of 
which  Victor  Hugo  was  chief.  They  conversed,  they 
read  each  other's  verses,  and  often  at  sunset,  they  would 
take  strolls  over  the  hills  and  valleys  around  Paris. 
Sometimes  they  would,  meet  on  the  route  along  the 
hawthorn  and  alder-hedges,  the  members  of  a  rival 
CSnacle*'  installed  at  the  inn  of  Mere  Saget,  a  good 
woman  whom  Bdranger  has  sung  as  Madame  Gregoire. 
Hugo  and  his  clique  would  press  the  hands  of  Thiers 
and  his  band,  and  there  would,  for  the  moment,  be  a 
fusion  of  the  two  Cenacles,  while  poetry  and  politics 
met  as  sisters. 

Hugo  had  not  ceased  to  be  a  royalist,  but  his  loyalty 
was  a  matter  of  sentiment  rather  than  of  conviction. 
The  patriotic  feeling  which  inspired  his  odes  on  the 
death  of  the  Duke  de  Berry  and  the  birth  of  the  Duke 

*  Cinade^  a  Latin  word  meaning  guest-chamber.  The  term 
was  first  adopted  as  a  designation  of  the  circle  of  romantic  poots 
which  met  at  Victor  Hugo's. 


VICTOR    HUGO.  123 

de  Bordeaux,  dictated  also  that  well-known  ode  to 
Napoleon.  The  country,  decimated  by  war,  was  still 
haunted  by  that  cry  of  despair  raised  by  the  mothers ; 
Rachel  weeping  for  her  children  and  refusing  to  be 
comforted  because  they  were  not. 

In  1826,  the  "Odes  and  Ballads"  appeared  in  two 
volumes,  bringing  their  author  fame  and  fortune.  Happy 
in  both  his  literary  and  domestic  life,  Hugo's  lot  was  at 
this  time  an  enviable  one.  In  the  outer  world,  friends, 
prosperity,  renown  smiled  upon  him ;  at  home  he  was 
blessed  with  the  society  of  an  adored  wife  and  beautiful 
children.  But  he  did  not  rest  content  with  the  laurels 
already  won,  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  repose 
amid  these  family  joys.  His  life  was  full  of  effort  and 
full  of  conflict.  Every  day  some  new  attack  annoyed  him. 
Envious  rivals  dared  accuse  him  of  having  appropriated 
the  chords  of  Byron's  lyre.  When  "  Bug  Jargal^''  his 
first  romance,  appeared,  they  declared  that  he  had 
imitated  Walter  Scott.  They  went  further.  All  the 
journals  cried  out  that  he  was  a  barbarian ;  that  he 
persistently  violated  the  precepts  of  good  taste,  that  he 
despised  the  dictionary  of  the  Academy,  the  poetics  of 
Aristotle  and  the  verses  of  Racine.  They  would  fain 
clip  his  wings,  and  swathe  him  in  the  old  languages  of 
the  past. 

The  injustice  of  these  attacks  led  naturally  to  an 
exaggerated  defence.  The  poet  must  either  adore  the 
public  idols  or  burn  them.     He  burned  them. 

"  Cromwell "  and  its  preface  were  the  signal  for  a 
warfare,  furious,  terrible,  implacable  ;  for  another  combat 
like  that  of  Thermopylae,  where  a  handful  of  men  led 
by  a  dauntless  chief,  dared  fight  against  thousands  of 
enemies,  and  were  not  conquered. 

The  Hugo  family  left  the  Rue  Notre-Dame  des  Champs, 


124  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

when  they  saw  the  architects  building  in  the  midst  ol 
their  beautiful  promenades,  uprooting  the  trees,  cutting 
off  the  perspective,  and  bringing  Paris  into  their  soli- 
tude. And  besides,  they  had  lost  their  first-born.  In 
a  maternal  heart,  souvenirs  of  mourning  are  ineffaceable 
enough  without  having  all  around  incite  them.  They 
left  this  abode  of  so  much  joy  and  so  much  sorrow,  but 
not  until  the  poet  had  inscribed  upon  the  tomb  of  the 
sweet  child  gone  to  rejoin  the  angels,  these  touching 
lines: 

Ohfdans  ce  monde  auguste  oii  rien  n'est  ephemere, 
Dans  cesflots  de  bonheur  que  tie  trouble  aucun  Jiel, 
Enfant !  loin  dtt  sourire  et  des  pleurs  de  ta  mere, 
N'est-tu  pas  orphelin  au  del  ?  * 

In  the  Rue  Jean-Goujon  at  the  Champs-Elysees,  was 
reared  the  new  tent  under  which  Victor  Hugo's  family 
took  shelter.  They  remained  here  until  1830,  when 
they  established  themselves  in  the  very  heart  of  Paris, 
in  the  house  No.  6,  Place-Royale.  Here  it  is  that  our 
literary  generation  has  known  them. 

In  this  ^old  hotel  Louis  XIII.,  a  silent  and  solemn 
abode,  for  fifteen  years  was  enthroned  the  king  of 
modern  poetry.  He  had  his  court  like  the  king  at  the 
Tuilleries,  an  assiduous,  devoted  court,  full  of  veneration 
for  the  master,  always  ready  to  defend  him. 

You  entered  Victor  Hugo's  house  thi-ough  an  im- 
mense ante-chamber  opening  upon  the  Place-Royale. 
This  ante-chamber  led  to  a  dining-hall  hung  with  woven 

♦  '•  Oh  !  in  that  world  august,  where  comes  nor  change  nor  dying, 
Amid  those  floods  of  bliss  where  no  earth-griefs  arise  ; 
Far  from  thy  mother's  smile  and  tears,  art  thou  not  sighing 
E'en  for  the  human  love,  dear  child,  thou  orphan  of  the  skies!  " 


VICTOR    HUGO.  125 

tapestry  and  full  of  ancient  drawings.  The  stove  was 
concealed  behind  a  splendid  panoply  to  which  twenty 
centuries  seemed  to  have  paid  tribute.  From  this 
room  you  passed  into  the  grand  salon  hung  with  a 
marvellous  crimson  tapestry,  its  subject  borrowed  from 
the  Romance  of  the  Rose.  At  the  further  end  of 
the  salon  was  a  divan,  raised  upon  a  sort  of  dais,  whose 
background  was  a  crimson  banner  embroidered  with  gold. 
This  banner  had  been  taken  in  1830,  at  the  siege  of 
Algiers. 

Victor  Hugo  was  the  first  to  restore  a  taste  for  beauti- 
ful historic  furniture.  His  salon  in  the  Place-Royale 
had  a  grandiose  character  which  made  one  despise  the 
narrow  cells  so  dear  to  Parisian  masonry.  Full  length 
portraits  of  the  master  and  mistress  of  the  house,  seemed 
ready  to  descend  from  their  Gothic  frames  to  salute 
you  and  receive  you.  Not  far  from  these  hung  the 
precious  picture-  of  Saint-Evre,  presented  to  Victor 
Hugo  by  the  Duke  of  Orleans.  At  the  end  of  a  long 
corridor  such  as  we  used  to  find  in  cloisters,  was  a 
sleeping-chamber,  then  a  study,  an  admirable  museum 
which  the  poet's  fancy  had  peopled  with  all  sorts  of 
rare,  curious  and  artistic  objects.  The  light  entered 
through  an  arched  window  of  stained  glass,  throwing 
fantastic  gleams  around  the  chairs  of  sculptured  oak, 
the  lacquer-work,  the  stones,  the  statuettes,  the  old 
Sevres. 

New  friends  thronged  to  this  abode  in  the  Place- 
Royale,  to  which  came  also  all  the  old  habitues  of  the 
rue  Notre-Dame.  Victor  Hugo  was  the  acknowledged 
chief  of  the  new  school  of  literary  men,  and  all  were 
eager  to  pay  him  homage.  Alfred  de  Musset,  Alphonse 
Karr,  Theophile  Gautier,  Arsene  Houssaye,  Jules  San- 
deau  and  twenty  others,  ranged  themselves  under  the 


126  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

banner  of  romanticism  and  formed  an  intrepid  phalanx 
around  the  master.  Idolizing  his  talent,  these  young 
men  regarded  Hugo  as  a  god. 

He  was  at  the  height  of  literary  success,  hut  never 
had  writer  found  more  obstacles  to  conquer.  Lord 
Byron  slept,  enveloped  in  his  winding-sheet  of  glory, 
Walter  Scott  was  read  from  one  end  of  the  universe  to 
the  other,  and  Casimir  Delavigne,  a  cowardly  romancist 
hidden  under  the  classic  toga,  saw  himself,  thanks  to 
this  disguise,  almost  the  only  one  in  favor  with  the 
clique  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise.  The  contest  became 
furious,  but  our  poet  fought  valiantly  to  the  end. 

His  "  Odes  and  Ballads,"  set  his  star  beside  that  of 
Byron.  He  had  still  to  contend  against  Walter  Scott, 
and  constrain  M.  Delavigne  to  yield  a  portion  of  the 
ground  he  had  usurped.  He  published  "  The  Last  Day 
of  a  Condemned,"  then  Notre-Ddme  de  Paris,  that 
giant  among  books,  before  which  all  the  works  of  the 
English  story-teller  pale.  Then  he  wrote  his  drama, 
"  Hernani,"  which  in  spite  of  the  bitterest  opposition, 
fought  its  way  to  the  repertoire  of  the  Theatre  Fran- 
9ais.  "  Take  care  how  you  attack  Victor  Hugo  !  "  said 
old  Joamy,  who  played  the  role  of  Ruy-Gomez,  to  his 
fellow-actors,  led  on  by  Mademoiselle  Mars,  to  take  many 
exceptions  to  the  piece  ;  "  you  are  like  mile-posts  who 
insult  a  pyramid  !  " 

"Hernani  "  proved  a  triumphant  success,  and  two  years 
after,  "  Marian  Delorme  "  had  the  honor  of  a  first  rej)- 
resentation.  After  its  eighteenth  repetition,  in  accord- 
ance with  a  universally  expressed  desire  on  the  part  of 
both  actors  and  public,  that  last  magnificent  scene  was 
added  in  which  Marian  is  pardoned.  No  audience  can 
ever  witness  it  without  tears. 

The  romantic  school  of  which  Victor  Hugo  is  high- 


YICTOR    HUGO.  127 

priest,  is  accused  of  often  exceeding  proper  limits.  But 
we  must  exaggerate  a  principle  in  order  to  better 
establish  it,  and  this  very  exaggeration  has  its  salutary 
effects.  "  Marie  Tudor,"  "  The  King  Amuses  Himself." 
"  Lucretia  Borgia,"  "  Angelo,"  contain  immense  dramatic 
qualities,  and  are  a  forcible  illustration  of  what  can  be 
dared  in  tragedy. 

Victor  Hugo  is  often  reproached  with  loving  mon- 
sters, and  devoting  his  talent  to  the  rehabilitation  of 
ugliness.  In  the  eyes  of  certain  people,  the  body  is  alL 
the  soul  nothing.  What  to  them  avail  the  highest  intel- 
lectual gifts,  the  holiest  qualities  of  the  heart,  devotion, 
love,  pity,  without  the  material  form? — To  gain  the 
good  will  of  these  individuals,  one  should  be  beautiful 
as  the  Belvidere  Apollo.  Hugo's  enemies  pretend  that 
he  has  inscribed  upon  his  banner  this  device ;  The 
beautiful  is  the  ugly !  Never  was  there  a  more  impu- 
dent falsehood.  That  other  maxim  they  ascribe  to  him, 
L''art  pour  Vart,  is  but  a  stupid  phrase  invented  by 
themselves. 

Despite  these  malevolent  attacks,  Victor  Hugo, 
always  at  the  breach,  always  fighting,  always  sure  of 
victory,  has  not  recoiled  an  inch  from  his  glorious  path. 
He  has  gone  on,  conquering  and  to  conquer. 

"Notre -Dame"  was  begun  in  the  year  1830,  and 
when  he  had  once  set  about  the  work  our  hero  did  not 
pause.  This  gigantic  effort  cost  him  immense  research ; 
it  is  at  the  same  time,  a  marvel  of  fascination,  a  master- 
piece of  style,  and  a  prodigy  of  archaeological  study. 
He  devoted  only  six  months  to  its  composition,  but  they 
were  months  of  persistent,  unremitting  lal)or. 

On  the  day  agreed  upon  with  his  publisher  "Notre- 
Dame  "  was  in  press.  But  even  then,  this  most  popular 
of  authors  was  allowed  no  repose;  the  theatres  clamored 


128  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

for  new  dramas.  "  The  King  amuses  Himself,"  had 
begun  to  draw  great  crowds  to  the  Fran^ais,  when  it 
was  interdicted,  and  could  be  known  only  through  the 
press.  Forty  thousand  copies  were  issued.  Six  weeks 
after,  at  the  Porte  Saint-Martin,  "Lucretia  Borgia  "  won 
a  grand  success.  On  the  evening  of  its  first  representa- 
tion, the  classic  army  had  its  Waterloo. 

The  Revue  de  Paris  ere  long  published  "Claude 
Gueux,"  and  the  public  enthusiastically  greeted  a  suc- 
cession of  new  works  from  Victor  Hugo  : — "  Autumn 
Leaves,"— "  The  Orientals,"— and  "Twilight  Songs." 
In  this  author  we  find  the  most  sublime  inspirations 
united  to  the  most  delicate  sensibility  and  grace.  He 
shuns  monotony,  that  sandbank  of  so  many  poets  and 
musicians.  He  knows  how  to  descend  from  the  Olym- 
pian heights  of  his  genius,  to  extend  a  friendly  hand  to 
the  forsaken,  to  weep  with  the  sorrowing.  He  pleads 
the  cause  of  the  poor,  and  preaches  sacred  almsgiving. 
One  of  his  finest  poems  has  this  opening  stanza : — 

Donnez,  riches  !   L'aiimone  est  la  soeur  de  la  pri^re. 

Donnez  !  afin  que  Dieu  qui  dote  les  families, 
Donne  k  vos  fils  la  force,  et  la  grace  a  vos  filles  ; 
Afin  que  votre  vigne  ait  toujours  uu  doux  fruit, 
Afin  qu'un  ble  plus  mur  fasse  plier  vos  granges  ; 
Afin  d'etre  meilleurs,  afin  de  voir  les  anges 
Passer  dans  vos  reves  la  nuit.* 


*  Give  ye  rich !  almsgiving  is  the  sister  of  prayer. 
»  «  «  «  «  «  « 

Give  !  so  that  God,  who  endows  families,  may  give  strength  to 
your  sons,  and  grace  to  your  daughters  ;  so  that  your  vine  may 


VICTOR    HUGO.  129 

Further  on,  as  a  Christian,  Victor  Hugo  lifts  up  the 
guilty  women,  and  to  the  Pharisees  of  our  day  addresses 
those  fine  lines,  beginning  with : 

Oh  1  n'insultez  jamais  une  femme  qui  tombe  I 

Passing  from  the  domain  of  charity  to  that  of  grace» 
we  see  here  as  everywhere,  Victor  Hugo  reigning  a 
master :     Here  is  one  of  his  purest  gems : — 

The  flower  said  to  the  butterfly  celestial 

"  I  cannot  fly, 
Fate  chains  me  down  to  things  lov/  and  terrestrial 
Thou  soar'st  on  high  ! 


"  The  sod  enchains  me  while  the  bright  stars  woo  thee ; 

Ah,  cruel  lot ! 
O,  might  I  rise  and  soar  aloft  unto  thee, 
The  earth  forgot ! 

"It  may  not  be,  bright  flowerets  without  number, 

Woo  thee  away ; 
No  gross  earth-bonds  thine  airy  wings  encumber ; 
I  dwell  with  clay. 

"  Flitting  from  place  to  place,  bright  as  the  dawning, 

Thy  life  appears ; 
But  every  starry  eve  and  dewy  morning, 
Finds  me  in  tears. 

"  Oh,  if  thou  lovest  me,  leave  the  air's  dominions, 

And  dwell  with  me  ; 
Take  root  on  earth,  my  king,  or  give  me  pinions 
To  soar  with  thee." 

always  have  a  sweet  fruit,  so  that  a  riper  grain  may  heap  your 
garners.  Give,  that  you  may  become  better,  that  you  may  see 
angels  passing  in  youi  nightly  dreams." 

6* 


130  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

"  Twilight  Songs  "  is  filled  witli  gems  of  rarest  beau- 
ty. Victor  Hugo  resembles  that  little  daughter  of 
the  fairies,  who  opened  her  mouth  only  for  pearls,  dia- 
monds and  roses  to  fall  from  it.  But,  suddenly,  and 
without  transition,  we  see  him  take  uj)  the  lash  of  Ju- 
venal, if  he  finds  an  ignominy  to  punish,  or  a  traitor  to 
scourge.  Time  fails  us  for  futher  quotations.  As, 
when  we  open  a  volume  of  Victor  Hugo's,  we  wish  to 
read  the  whole  of  it,  so  we  are  in  like  manner  enticed 
by  the  superfluity  of  treasures  which  the  narrow  frame 
of  a  notice  like  this  cannot  embrace. 

Harel,  elated  at  the  success  of  "  Lucretia  Borgia," 
offered  its  renowned  author  ten  thousand  francs  for 
another  piece,  "  Marie  Tudor,"  was  soon  placed  in 
rehearsal,  but  rivalry  between  the  two  great  actresses, 
Mile.  Georges  and  Mine.  Duval,  caused  much  trouble 
in  the  repetitions.  At  all  times  and  places,  the  director 
was  of  Mile.  Georges'  opinion,  and  she  every  day  stir_ 
red  up  new  quarrels.  The  poet  paid  no  heed  to  the 
belligerent  fantasies  of  the  great  tragedienne.  He 
enveloped  himself  in  that  calm  dignity,  in  that  strength 
of  will  characteristic  of  him. — Despite  an  insolent  cabal, 
led  on  by  the  direction  itself,  the  drama  had  a  wonder- 
ful success.  Mile.  Georges  and  Harel  soon  made  the 
amende  honorable  to  our  poet.  But  he  had  been  too  deep- 
ly wounded ;  he  would  work  no  longer  for  the  Porte- 
Saint-Martin.  Less  than  six  weeks  after,  that  theatre  be- 
came bankrupt. 

Madame  Duval  entered  the  Comedie  Fran^aise,  but 
freed  from  the  insults  of  Mile.  Georges,  she  had  to 
submit  here  to  all  sorts  of  rebuffs  from  Mile.  Mars.  At 
length  Mile.  Mars  carried  her  impudence  so  far  that 
Hugo  demanded  back  her  rOle. 

An  exclamation  of  horror  broke  from  the  lips  of  the 


VICTOR    HUGO.  131 

great  actress,  and  was  echoed  from  one  end  of  the  cou- 
lisses to  the  other.  Take  from  her  a  role,  from  A^r, 
queen  of  the  theatre,  what  an  unheard  of,  preposterous 
idea  !  Hugo,  dignified  and  severe,  would  listen  to  no 
murmurs ;  he  persisted. 

"  Very  well,  monsieur,"  said  "  Celimene,"  vanquish- 
ed. "  I  will  do  what  you  please."  The  lesson  had 
proved  effectual ;  she  became  amiable  and  obliging,  and 
laid  aside  her  usual  dictatorial  manner.  When  once 
before  the  public.  Mile.  Mars  was  sure  to  do  her  best, 
to  intrepidly  sustain  what  she  had  most  attacked  during 
the  rehearsals. 

Hugo  often  went  to  Bievre,  where  the  Bertin  family 
received  him  at  a  magnificent  country-seat.  Here  he 
frequently  met  Chateaubriand,  his  ancient  and  faithful 
admirer.  Mile.  Louise  Bertin  would  play  the  piano  for 
the  two  poets.  Recognizing  her  remarkable  talent  for 
execution,  Hugo  wrote  expressly  for  her  the  libretto 
of  "Esmeralda."  It  was  truly  a  royal  gift,  which 
would  have  been  refused  to  Meyerbeer  himself.  Those 
were  delightful  evenings  they  passed  at  Bievre.  Having 
written  some  verses  in  the  album  of  Mile.  Louise  Bertin, 
Hugo  one  day  turned  a  leaf,  laid  aside  the  pen  of  the 
poet  for  the  pencil  of  the  artist,  and  began  to  draw  de- 
lightful little  fanc3^  sketches.  The  public  is  not  ignorant 
of  the  fact  that  this  great  poet  is  an  excellent  designer. 

This  talent  is  entirely  original  and  without  any 
known  model.  During  the  prevalence  of  the  cholera  in 
1832,  he  filled  an  entire  album  with  caricatures  to 
divert  his  wife  and  children.  At  Paul  Meurice's,  may 
be  seen  to-day,  a  very  large  drawing,  representing  an 
old,  fantastic  manor,  its  denticulated  turrets,  gables 
and  high  ramparts,  unfolding  one  by  one  before  the 
sight,  and  losing  themselves  in  the  hazy  distance.    This 


132  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

drawing  has  something  gigantic,  strange  and  sombre, 
which  takes  possession  of  you  and  transports  you  to  the 
realm  of  dreams.  It  seems  a  powerful  reflection  of  the 
character  and  genius  of  the  poet.  He  has  executed  two 
other  equally  fine  drawings.  The  first  bears  the  title, 
"  One  of  my  Castles  in  Spain,"'  the  second  represents 
a  ship  beaten  by  the  tempest.  Bent  by  the  violence  of 
the  windsi  the  masts  unite  and  take  the  form  of  a 
cross.  Below  you  read  this  legend  : — In  mare  malus  fit 
crux.  A  number  of  his  drawings  disappeared  at  the 
sale  which  took  place  in  the  rue  Tour  d^Auvergne,  but 
many  of  them  have  been  recovered,  and  placed  in  a 
special  album. 

In  1848,  Hugo  again  changed  his  domicil.  The  tak- 
ing down  the  iron-barred  gate  Louis  Xni.which  harmo- 
nized so  well  with  the  architecture  of  the  Plac^-Royale, 
had  caused  him  great  chagrin.  He  has  always  warred 
against  this  plaster-of-paris  mania,  which  so  ruthlessly 
effaces  the  seal  of  a  nation's  history  or  destroys  the 
monuments  that  consecrate  it.  France  owes  to  him  the 
salvation  of  a  great  number  of  old  chateaux  and 
Gothic  capitals,  vowed  to  ruin  by  governmental  thought- 
lessness, or  menaced  by  the  revolutionary  hammer.  Prov- 
idence takes  care  that  there  shall  arise  at  intervals, 
these  powerful  intelligences  who  unite  the  ages,  teach 
descendants  to  know  their  ancestors,  and  make  the  past 
respected  for  the  sake  of  the  future. 

Thanks  to  the  taste  of  Victor  Hugo  for  antique  furni- 
ture, for  all  sorts  of  curiosities,  the  merchants  of  bric-4- 
brac  constantly  besiege  his  door,  and  every  day  persuade 
him  to  purchase  new  objects,  so  that  the  poet's  dwelling 
is  always  a  sort  of  antique  museum.  At  the  sale  before 
his  removal  from  the  Place-Royale,  a  very  valuable  and 
miscellaneous  collection  was  dispersed. 


VICTOR    HUGO.  133 

In  changing  his  abode,  Hugo  always  wishes  to  over- 
see the  upholsterers  and  to  give  them  mstructions  for- 
eign from  their  usual  practice.  Upon  entering  this  last 
new  domicile,  he  said  to  them : 

"  You  are  going  to  nail  this  picture  to  the  ceiling." 

"  But  Monsieur — " 

"Nail  away!" 

They  obey  reluctantly.  It  is  a  wonderfully  fine  pic- 
ture, and  its  place  does  not  seem  well  chosen.  "Now," 
says  Hugo,  "  fill  the  spaces  with  strips  of  Lyons  damask 
of  equal  length."  The  workmen  seem  to  have  fallen 
from  the  clouds. 

"Never,"  murmur  they,  "have  we  done  anything  of 
the  kind." 

"  So  much  the  better  !  Arrange  the  damask  upon  an 
inclined  plane.  Now  fasten  it  all  around  with  these 
golden  rods." 

The  upholsterers,  descending  from  their  ladders,  and 
gazing  at  their  work,  cry  out : 

"  Well,  truly,  it  is  superb  !  " 

Hugo  has  concealed  his  yellow,  jagged  ceiling,  full 
of  cracks,  under  a  rich  painting  surrounded  by  a  tapestry 
frame,  majestic  in  effect. 

"Ruy  Bias,"  Victor  Hugo's  next  play,  in  which  Fred- 
eric Lemaitre  took  the  principal  role,  proved  a  brilliant 
success.  The  author  himself  says  in  his  preface  to 
"  Ruy  Bias,"  "  For  Frederick  Lemaitre,  the  evening 
of  the  8th  of  November  (that  of  the  first  representation 
of  this  play)  was  not  a  representation,  but  a  trans* 
figuration." 

June  3d,  1841,  Victor  Hugo  entered  the  Academy, 
like  a  bullet  that  has  made  its  breach,  and  passes  in 
spite  of  the  rampart.    "  There  are  two  Academies  here,' 


134  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

said  Lamartine  to  him  on  that  day,  "  the  little  and  the 
great  ;  the  great  one  is  unanimous  for  you." 

Soon  after,  he  was  elevated  to  the  dignity  of  peer  of 
France. 

An  incident  which  occurred  in  1839  is  well  worthy  of 
mention.  The  sister  of  Barbes,  a  political  offender  con- 
demned to  the  scaffold,  had  come  to  the  poet  imploring 
him  to  beg  her  brother's  pardon.  A  first  attempt  proved 
fruitless.  The  court  was  then  in  mourning  for  .that  gen- 
tle Marie  of  Wurtemberg,  the  angel  of  the  royal  family, 
stricken  so  early  by  the  hand  of  death,  and  the  Count 
de  Paris  had  just  been  born.  Hugo  again  sought  the 
king.  It  was  on  the  12th  July  at  midnight.  His  Majesty 
had  just  retired,  and  could  not  be  seen.  The  poet  wrote 
this  stanza  which  he  left  upon  the  table : — 

Par  votre  ange  envolee  ainsi  qii'une  colorabe, 
Par  ce  royal  enfant  doux  et  fr&le  roseau, 

Grace  encore  une  fois  !  grace  au  nom  de  la  tombe ! 
Grace  au  nom  du  berceau  1  * 

Upon  awaking,  Louis  Philippe  read  these  four  lines 
and  Barbes  was  saved. 

In  August,  1837,  appeared  "  The  Rhine,"  a  charming 
volume  of  letters  where  the  poet  presents  himself  in  a 
role  novel  as  original.  In  May,  1840,  a  collection  of 
poems,  "  Inner  Voices  "  and  "  Lights  and  Shadows," 
was  given  to  the  world.  These  poems  have  all  the  in- 
spiration, all  the  grace  and  genius  of  the  author's  most 
beautiful  days.  Victor  Hugo  has  none  of  that  insuffer- 
able vagueness  we  find  in  other  poets  :  we  never  grow 
weary  of  reading  him.     All  his  poems  bear  the  impress 

*  By  that  dove  flown,  that  angel  from  yon  taken, 
By  this  dear  infant,  royal  yet  so  frail, 
Pardon  once  more  !  Your  pity  to  awaken, 
Let  both  the  cradle  and  the  tomb  avaiL 


•VICTOR    HUGO.  135 

of  tlie  hear^-.,  in  them  there  is  no  dearth  of  ideas  ;  every 
one  has  the  ring  of  the  true  coin,  the  master-piece.  Here 
is  one  of  the  tenderest  and  sweetest ; — 

La  tombe  dit  k  la  rose, 
,    "  Des  pleurs  dont  I'aube  arrose, 
Que  fais-tu,  fleur  des  amours  ?  " 
La  rose  dit  a  la  tombe, 
"  Que  fais-tii  de  ce  qui  tombe, 
Dans  ton  goutfre  ouvert  toujours  ?  " 

La  rose  dit : — "  Tombeau  sombre, 
De  ces  pleurs  je  fais  dans  I'ombre 

Un  parfum  d'ambre  et  de  miel." 
La  tombe  dit : — "  Fleur  plaintive 
De  chaque  dine  qui  m 'arrive 

Je  fais  un  ange  du  ciell" 


The  tomb  said  to  the  rose, 

"  With  the  tears  by  morning  shed, 

What  doest  thou,  flower  of  loveV  " 

And  the  sweet  rose  answering  said : 
"  What  doest  thou  with  that  which  falls 
Within  thine  ever  open  walls?  " 

The  rose  said  :  "  Of  these  tears 

I  make  a  perfume  rare. 
Honey  and  amber-sweet." 

The  tomb  said  :  "  Floweret  fair, 
Of  every  soul  unto  me  given 
I  make  an  angel  meet  for  heaven." 

At  the  Isle  of  Jersey,  the  Hugos  dwelt  in  a  pretty 
English  house,  very  simple,  but  comfortable.  Behind 
it  lay  a  beautiful  garden,  ending  in  a  terrace,  bached  by 
the  waves.  From  his  windows,  the  exile  could  see  the 
shores  of  France.  He  had  tried  a  residence  in 
Belgium  and  in  London,  but  could  be  content  with 
neither.  The  fogs  and  bad  weather  of  London  had 
annoved   him  excessively.      "  The  good  God  who  ha? 


136  LIFE    PORTEAITS. 

deprived  us  of  country,  will  surely  leave  us  the  sun,"  he 
said. 

He  was  banished  from  Jersey  for  having  Avritten  the 
Queen  a  disrespectful  letter  in  regard  to  a  man  sentenced 
to  be  hanged.     He  removed  to  the  Isle  of  Guernsey. 

His  two  sons,  Charles  and  Victoi:,  returned  to  France, 
where  they  founded  a  journal,  the  Rappel.  From  the 
shades  of  exile,  Hugo  counseled  them  to  make  a  breach 
in  the  imperial  system. 

A  poet  friend  wrote  some  verses  to  Victor  Hugo 
asking  these  very  rational  questions  : — 

"  Why  then,  O  poet,  you  whom  God  sends  as  an 
emanation  from  his  pure  essence,  to  console,  to  sing,  to 
bless,  why  do  you  seem  to  lose  sight  of  your  holy  mis- 
sion? Why,  son  of  heaven,  do  you  mix  yourself  with 
the  insensate  broils  of  earth  ?  "  Hugo  replied  in  a  poem 
magnificent  in  thought  and  diction,  but  untranslateable, 
like  all  his  best  poetic  utterances.  "  The  poet's  mission, 
in  these  impious  days,"  says  he,  "  is  to  inaugurate  better 
days.  He  is  an  Utopian,  his  feet  are  here,  his  eyes  else- 
where. He  is  a  prophet  to  all  time,  bearing  in  his  hand 
a  torch-to  illuminate  the  future." 

These  are  grand  thoughts,  and  yet  we  can  but  regret 
the  day  when  Victor  Hugo  wore  on  his  forehead  only 
the  radiant  crown  of  poesy  without  aspiring  to  that  of 
the  man  of  party.  Works  inspired  by  hatred  and  re- 
venge, dishonor  not  the  individuals  they  attack,  but 
the  author  who  signs  them. 

Although  crusliing  domestic  afflictions  have  fallen 
upon  this  literary  giant ;  although  he  is  an  old  man,  past 
threescore  years  and  ten,  his  age  is  hale  and  hearty,  his 
mental  activity  continues  unabated.  No  longer  a  vol- 
untary'exile,  he  has  returned  to  his  dear  Paris,  where 
there  is  no  man  of  greater  mark  than  he. 


VICTOR   HUGO.  137 

He  regards  himself  as  a  seer,  a  prophet,  a  sort  of  Mo- 
ses, commissioned  to  lead  his  people  out  from  the  bond- 
age of  slavish  ideas,  to  a  promised  land  of  prosperity 
and  freedom.  But  he  lacks  the  meekness  and  long-suf- 
fering of  his  Israelitish  prototype.  Many  of  his  ideas, 
Utopian  and  visionary,  could  have  no  practical  realiza- 
tion save  at  the  expense  of  worse  anarchy  than  has  ever 
fallen  even  upon  France. 

His  "  Legend  of  the  Ages  "  is  a  dainty  poetic  feast 
to  Avhich  came  as  guests,  the  gorgons  of  demagogism, 
coifed  with  serpents.  In  "  Les  Miserables,"  this  man 
of  genius  lets  the  thunderbolts  of  his  wrath  fall  upon 
French  society,  and  preaches  the  warfare  of  the  poor 
against  the  rich.  His  "  Songs  of  the  Street  and  the  For- 
ests "  has  been  redeemed  neither  by  the  prose  of  "  The 
Toilers  of  the  Sea, " — "  The  Man  who  Laughs  " — nor 
"  Ninety-Three."  All  these  works  show  the  wonderful- 
ly original  talent  and  unabated  powers  of  Victor  Hugo, 
but  they  are  disfigured  by  his  most  glaring  faults. 

This  humiliated  giant,  not  able  to  overthrow  kings,  has 
had  the  folly  to  set  himself  up  for  a  god.  Political 
passion  and  an  insensate  desire  to  take  part  in  every  at- 
tack upon  Church  and  State,  make  him  fall  into  incredi- 
ble contradictions.  In  "Les  Rayons  et  les  Ombres," 
he  called  Voltaire  "  that  ape  of  genius  sent  by  the  devil 
on  a  mission  to  men." 

March  12,  1867,  he  wrote  to  M.  Havin : 

"  My  dear  old  Colleague, 

"  Subscribe  for  a  statue  to  Vol- 
taire ;  it  is  a  public  duty.  Voltaire  is  a  forerunner. 
Torch-bearer  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  he  preceded 
and  announced  the  French  Revolution.     He  is  the  star 


138  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

of  that  grand  morning.     I  send  you  the  humble  list  of 
the  little  democratic  group  of  Guernsey. 
"  Your  old  colleague, 

"  Victor  Hugo." 

Alas,  alas  !  The  contradiction  yet  endures.  We  par- 
don so  many  things  to  women  and  to  poets  ! 

Bienfoi  est  que  s'y  fie  ! 

But  how  melancholy  is  the  fate  of  genius  when  it  no 
longer  listens  to  aught  save  pride  and  passion  ! 


PAUL  DE  KOCK. 

BORN   1794— DIED   1870. 

Who  of  the  generation  of  to-day,  would  suspect  the 
vogue  Paul  de  Kock  enjoyed  thirty  or  forty  years  ago  ? 
Never  was  author  more  popular  in  the  true  sence 
of  the  word.  All  the  world  read  him,  from  the  statesman 
to  the  commercial  traveller  and  the  collegian,  from  the 
grand  lady  to  the  grisette.  He  was  no  less  celebrated 
abroad  than  in  France,  and  in  his  romances,  the  Russians 
studied  Parisian  manners.  The  advent  of  the  romantic 
school  with  its  grand  chivalric  sentiments,  its  lyric 
enthusiasms,  its  love  for  the  middle  age  and  for  local 
color,  its  furious  passions,  its  luxury  of  Shakspearean 
metaphors,  eclipsed  this  modest  glory,  whose  rays  were 
extinguished  before  that  unexpected  blaze. 

Paul  de  Kock,  we  may  say  in  his  praise,  was  a  true 
hourgcois,  a  Philistine  of  Marais,  without  a  shadow  of 
poetry  or  style ;  he  had  no  reading  and  not  even  any 
idea  of  aesthetics,  which  he  would  willingly  have  taken, 
like  Pradon,  for  a  term  of  chemistry.  The  artistic  fiber 
was  entirely  wanting  in  him.  Do  not  suspect  us  of 
'irony  in  saying  this ;  these  seeming  faults  are  merits, 
which  recommend  him  to  the  masses.  Paul  de  Kock 
had  the  advantage  of  being  the  absolute  equal  of  liis 
readers,  of  sharing  their  ideas,  their  prejudices,   theii- 


140  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

sentiments  ;  and  he  possessed  one  especial  gift,  the  gift 
of  laughter  ;  not  of  the  Attic  sort,  but  that  loud,  expan- 
sive, irresistible  animal  laughter  which  makes  you  hold 
your  sides  in  its  convulsive  outbursts.  He  pravoked 
this  merriment  by  comic  situations,  ridiculous  mishaps, 
grotesque  attitudes,  and  a  succession  of  all  sorts  of 
blunders  whose  effect  was  irresistible.  Certainly  all  this 
is  grossly  designed,  wanting  in  wit ;  and  sketched  with  a 
coarse  pencil  ;  but  there  is  in  these  absurdities  which 
crowd  one  upon  the  other,  a  force,  a  naturalness  and  a 
truth,  which  must  be  recognized. 

Paul  de  Kock  has  become  a  historic  author.  His  works 
contain  a  portrayal  of  manners  which  have  disappeared 
with  a*  civilization  as  different  from  ours  as  that  whose 
vestiges  we  find  in  the  ruins  of  Pompeii.  His  romances, 
which  were  designed  for  recreation,  will  hereafter  be 
consulted  by  the  learned,  curious  to  know  the  life  of 
that  old  Paris,  of  which,  ere  long,  no  trace  will  remain. 

Those  who  were  born  after  the  revolution  of  February, 
1848,  or  shortly  before,  can  little  imagine  what  that 
Paris  was,  where  lived  and  moved  the  heroes  and  heroines 
of  Paul  de  Kock ;  so  little  does  it  resemble  the  actual 
Paris  of  to-day,  that  sometimes,  in  gazing  at  these  broad 
streets,  these  grand  boulevards,  these  vast  squares,  these 
interminable  lines  of  monumental  houses,  these  splendid 
quarters  which  have  replaced  the  plats  of  the  kitchf  n 
gardener,  we  ask  ourselves,  can  this  really  be  the  city 
where  we  passed  our  childhood  ? 

Paris,  which  is  becoming  the  metropolis  of  the  world, 
was  then  only  the  capital  of  France.  You  met  French- 
men and  even  Parisians  in  the  streets.  Strangers  doubt- 
less came  here  as  at  all  periods,  in  search  of  pleasure  or 
instruction,  but  the  means  of  transport  were  difticult, 
the  ideal  of  speed  did  not  go  beyond  the  classic  mail 


PAUL   DE    KOCK.  141 

coach,  the  locomotive  had  not  loomed  up,  even  as  a 
chimera,  among  the  mists  of  the  future.  The  physiognomy 
of  the  people  had  not  then  sensibly  changed. 

The  provincials  remained  at  home  far  more  than  now ; 
they  came  to  Paris  only  on  urgent  business.  You  could 
hear  French  spoken  on  what  was  then  called  the  Boule- 
vard de  Gand,  and  is  to-day,  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens, 
Here  you  saw  a  type  which  has  become  rare,  but  which 
is  really  the  pure  Parisian  type :  — fair  complexions, 
rosy  cheeks,  chestnut  hair,  clear  gray  eyes,  well-made 
forms  of  medium  height,  and,  among  women,  a  delicate 
embonpoint.  Olive  faces  and  black  hair  were  the 
exceptions ;  the  South  had  not  yet  invaded  Paris  with 
its  passionately-pale  complexions,  its  glowing  ey'es,  its 
furious  gesticulations.  Most  of  the  faces  you  met,  were 
still  blooming  and  smiling,  and  wore  an  air  of  health  and 
good  humor.  The  complexions  we  now  call  distinguished, 
would  then  have  given  the  idea  of  illness. 

The  city  was  relatively  very  small,  or  at  least,  its 
activity  was  confined  within  certain  limits,  which  were 
rarely  passed.  The  Champs-Elys ees,  at  night-fall,  be- 
came as  dangerous  as  the  plain  of  Marathon  ;  the  most 
adventurous  stopped  at  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  The 
quarter  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette,  was  only  a  vague 
space  enclosed  by  a  plank  fence  ;  the  church  was  not 
yet  built,  and  from  the  boulevard,  you  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  mound  of  Mohtmartre  with  wind-mills,  and  the 
telegraph  extending  its  broad  arms  from  the  summit  of 
the  old  tower.  The  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  retired 
early,  but  its  slumbers  were  often  disturbed  by  the 
tumults  of  the  students  over  a  new  piece  at  the  Odeon. 
Passing  from  one  quarter  to  another  was  far  less  frequent 
than  now  ;  the  omnibus  did  not  exist, — and  there  were 
marked  differences  of  physiognomy,  of  costume  and  ac- 


142  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

cent,  between   a  native  of  the  Rue  du  Temple  a  ad  a 
denizen  of  the  Rue  Montmartre. 

Paul  de  Kock  remained  master  of  the  boulevard 
where  he  dwelt.  He  knew  all  the  bourgeois  who  passed, 
as  well  as  their  spouses  and  sweet-hearts.  He  knew 
their  thoughts,  he  understood  their  traditional  jests,  and 
laughed  merrily  at  them.  This  patriarchal  simplicity 
delighted  him,  and  when  these  good  people  were  arrang- 
ing a  rural  party  for  the  next  Sunday,  he  would  manage 
to  get  invited,  and  carry  a  pie  or  a  melon  under  his  arm. 
During  the  dinner  on  the  grass,  it  was  he  who  would 
say  the  most  laughable  things,  and  sing  the  merriest 
songs.  This  was  gross  enjoyment  no  doubt,  inspired  by 
blue  wine  and  by  swine's  flesh,  but  it  was  honest,  after 
all;  the  family  was  there,  and  the  little  girls  in  their 
gingham  dresses,  knew  that  the  lovers  who  accompanied 
them,  would,  one  day,  be  their  husbands. 

There  existed  then,  all  around  Paris,  little  rural  places, 
or  places  which  appeared  rural  to  the  poor  devils  who 
had  worked  all  the  week  in  the  obscurity  and  confine- 
ment of  a  shop ;  there  were  bits  of  forest  made  to  order, 
to  shade  a  tea-garden,  fishing-huts  half  in  the  water, 
arbors,  of  hop-vines  ;  there  were  Romainville,  the  park 
of  Saint-Fargeau,  the  meadows  of  Saint-Gervais,  with 
their  groves  of  lilac,  and  their  fountain,  its  water  over- 
flowing from  a  narrow  stone  basin,  to  which  3-ou  de- 
scended by  steps.  This  landscape  sufficed  for  Paul  de 
Kock,  who,  to  say  true,  is  neither  picturesque  nor  gifted 
with  those  descriptive  powers  so  much  in  vogue  to-day. 
And  so,  he  finds  all  charming.  This  bald  meadow  is  for 
him  the  country ;  he  paints  it  with  a  dry  and  meagre 
touch,  as  a  background  for  his  figures,  but  he  understands 
little  of  what  we  call  nature,  and,  in  this  respect,  he  is 
very  French  and  verj-  Parisian  ! 


PAUL    DE    KOCK.  143 

He  does  not  always  confine  himself  to  the  city  precincts ; 
he  pushes  on  to  Montmorency,  and  then  what  delightful 
donkey-j)arties  in  the  forest,  what  exclamations,  what 
laughter,  what  blithesome  tumblings  upon  the  grass, 
w^hat.  nice  repasts  of  brown  bread  and  cherries  !  These 
are  only  clerks  and  grisettes  to  be  sure,  but  they  are 
quite  the  equals  of  the  more  artificial  heroes  and  heroines 
of  modern  romance ;  we  say  this  with  no  desire  to  extol 
the  past  at  the  expense  of  the  present,  a  common  fault 
of  those  who  have  been  young  under  another  reign. 

The  grisettes  of  Paul  de  Kock,  certainly  have  not  the 
elegance  of  the  Mimi  Pinson  of  Alfred  de  Musset,  but 
they  are  fresh,  gay,  amusing,  good  young  girls,  and  far 
prettier  under  their  percale  caps  or  light  straw  hats,  than 
the  painted,  artificial  creatures  for  whom  the  sons  of  good 
families  are  ruining  themselves  to-day.  They  live  by 
their  work,  poorly,  but  with  little  anxiety  as  the  birds 
that  nest  upon  their  eaves  :  their  love  has  no  tariff,  and 
with  them  the  heart  always  plays  its  part.  This  pretty 
race  has  disappeared  with  many  other  good  things  of 
that  old  Paris,  which  now  lives  only  in  the  romances, 
wrongly  despised,  of  Paul  de  Kock.  His  name  will 
survive  many  of  the  celebrities  of  the  moment,  for  he 
represents  with  fidelity,  with  nerve  and  fulness,  a  period 
that  has  wholly  vanished. 

We  may  now  regard  his  characters  with  disdainful 
astonishment,  but  they  found  a  great  deal  of  amusement 
in  their  simple  pleasures.  Our  age  has  become  more 
refined,  and  such  pleasures  do  not  suffice  it.  It  has  to 
pay  dear  for  its  amusements,  and  much  good  may  they 
do  it !  These  rather  gross,  but  fresh  and  natural  enjoy- 
ments of  Paul  de  Kock's  time  seem  to  us  of  mauvais  ton. 
We  prefer  jests  in  a  new  tongue,  phrases  taken  from  the 
slang  dictionary,  and  the  epileptic  insanities  of  the 
repertoire  of  the  Opera  Bouffe. 


144  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

We  render  so  much  the  more  cheerfully  this  tardy 
homage  to  Paul  de  Kock,  from  the  fact  that  having  been 
one  of  the  standard-bearers  in  the  great  romantic  army, 
we  have  not  perhaps,  read  his  romances  with  the  atten 
tion  they  deserve.  We  have  looked  upon  the  things  he 
depicts  with  different  eyes,  and  the  sense  has  not  been 
clear  to  us.  And  yet  we  feel  that  there  is  in  this 
romancer,  a  sort  of  comic  force  wanting  to  others.  At 
present  he  appears  to  us  in  a  more  serious,  we  may  even 
say,  a  more  melancholy  light,  if- such  a  word  can  apply 
to  Paul  de  Kock.  Certain  of  his  romances  produce 
upon  us  the  effect  of  "  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans"  by 
Fenimore  Cooper.  We  seem  to  read  in  them  the 
history  of  the  last  Parisians,  invaded  and  submerged  by 
American  civilization. 


ALPHONSE  DE  LAMARTINE. 

Born  1790— Died  1869. 

It  is  not  a  biography  of  Lamartine,  still  less  a  detailed 
criticism  of  his  work,  which  we  would  wish  to  write 
here ;  but  our  desire  shall  rather  be  to  disengage  this 
ground  figure  from  the  penumbra  within  which  it  has 
for  some  years  veiled  itself,  during  the  retirement  and 
the  silence  of  these  latter  days,  and  to  replace  it  under 
that  ray,  which  henceforth  will  no  more  leave  it.  A 
humble  poet,  constrained  to  prose  by  the  necessities,  pf 
journalism,  we  are  going  to  try  to  judge  a  great  poet.  It  is 
a  temerity  upon  our  part.  Our  forehead  does  not  reach 
to  his  feet ;  but  it  is  from  below  that  we  appreciate 
statues.  His  merits  to  be  hewn  in  the  finest  marble  of 
Paros  or  Carrara,  pure  from  every  stain. 

He  himself  has  related  in  a  style  which  it  is  given  to 
none  to  imitate,  his  first  remembrances  of  childhood  and 
home  ;  his  young  soul,  opening  to  life,  to  dreams,  to 
thought,  gave  to  the  world  those  immortal  confidences 
of  genius,  and  the  crowd  received  them,  each  according 
to  his  pleasure ;  for  each  can  cherish  the  illusion  that 
this  voice,  so  intimate  and  so  penetrating,  speaks  to  him 
only  as  to  an  unknown  friend. 

We  shall  then  leave  Lamartine  to  seek  through  his 
studies,  his  reveries,  his  passions  and  his  travel,  as  in 

7 


146  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

life  apparently  unoccupied,  that  path  he  is  to  follow, 
and  which  is  not  always  easily  distinguishable  in  the 
the  inextricable  crossways  of  human  vocations.  Doubt- 
less all  the  generous  sentiments  he  was  to  express  so 
well,  love,  faith,  religious  adorations  of  nature,  home- 
sickness for  Heaven,  already  rose  within  him ;  but  he 
was  as  yet,  for  the  world,  only  a  handsome  young  man  of 
the  most  aristrocratic  elegance,  of  perfect  manners,  and 
destined  to  the  success  of  the  salon. 

He  had  made  two  voyages  to  Italy ;  the  impression 
which  that  pure  sky  must  have  produced  upon  him, 
those  seas  bluer  even  than  the  sky,  those  grand  horizons, 
those  trees  with  their  shining  and  robust  foliage,  those 
ruins  so  magnificent  in  their  decay,  all  this  vigorous, 
warm,  impassioned  nature,  where  wandered  like  mute 
shades,  people  bending  under  the  yoke  of  servitude  and 
under  the  grandeur  of  their  past :  he  said  nothing  of  it 
all,  then,  but  poetry  was  silently  accumulating  in  his 
heart.  The  secret  treasure  grew  each  day ;  pearl  by 
pearl  was  added  to  the  mysterious  casket,  which  was  to 
be  opened  in  the  future.  If  he  was  the  rival  of  Byron 
to  whom  he  addressed  an  epistle  equal  to  the  most  beau- 
tiful stanzas  of  Childe  Harold,  it  was  not  as  a  dandy. 
Having  returned  to  France,  he  allowed  several  years  to 
pass  in  that  harassing  and  fruitful  activity,  whence 
great  works  have  their  being,  and  in  1820,  a  modest 
volume  appeared,  which  not  without  difficulty  found  a 
publisher ;  it  was  "  The  Meditations." 

This  volume  was  a  rare  event  in  the  centuries.  It 
contained  an  entire  new  world,  a  world  of  poetry  more 
difficult  perhaps  to  discover  than  aii  America  or  an  At- 
lantis. While  he  had  seemed  to  go  and  come  indifferent- 
ly among  other  men,  Lamartine  had  been  voyaging  over 
unknown  seas,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  star,  tending  to- 


ALPHONSE    DE   LAMARTINE.  147 

wards  a  shore  which  no  one  had  reached,  and  he  returned 
a  conqueror,  like  Columbus.  He  had  discovered  the 
soul  ! 

We  cannot  imagine  to-day  after  so  many  revolutions, 
overturnings  and  vicissitudes  in  human  things,  after  so 
many  literary  systems  essayed  and  fallen  into  forgetful- 
ness,  so  much  excess  of  thought  and  of  language,  the  uni- 
versal transport  produced  by  the  "  Meditations."  It  was  a 
breath  of  freshness  and  rejuvenescence,  as  it  were  a  pal- 
pitating of  wings  which  passed  over  all  souls.  Young 
people,  young  girls,  women,  were  enthusiastic  even  to 
adoration.  The  name  of  Lamartine  was  upon  all  lips, 
and  the  Parisians,  who  certainly  are  not  a  poetical 
race,  struck  with  the  madness  of  the  Abderitains,  who 
repeated  incessantly  the  chorus  of  Euripides,  "  O  love, 
powerful  love  !  "  began  to  recite  stanzas  from  "  The 
Lake.'' — Never  had  success  such  proportions. 

Lamartine  in  fact  was  not  only  a  poet,  he  was  poetry 
itself.  His  chaste,  elegant  and  noble  nature,  seemed  to 
be  entirely  ignorant  of  the  deformities  and  trivialities  of 
life.  Such  was  the  book,  such  was  the  author,  and  the 
best  frontispiece  one  could  have  chosen  for  this  volume 
of  verse,  was  the  portrait  of  the  poet.  The  lyre  in  his 
hands  and  upon  his  shoulders  the  mantle  lashed  by  the 
storm,  did  not  seem  ridiculous. 

What  a  profound  and  novel  accent !  What  ethereal 
aspirations,  what  approaches  toward  the  ideal,  what  pure 
effusions  of  love, what  tender  and  melancholy  notes,  what 
sighs  and  supplications  of  the  soul,  which  no  poet  had 
yet  made  vibrate ! 

In  the  pictures  of  Lamartine  there  is  always  a  great 
deal  of  sky  ;  he  must  have  celestial  spaces,  in  order  to 
move  easily  and  to  describe  large  circles  around  his 
thought.  He  swims,  he  flies,  he  sails ;   like  a  swan,  crad- 


148  LIFE    POETRAITS. 

ling  itself  in  its  great  white  wings  now  in  the  light,  now 
amid  thin  vapors,  anon  amid  stormy  clouds,  he  rests  but 
rarely  upon  the  earth,  and  ever  resumes  his  flight  at 
the  first  breeze  which  lilts  his  wings.  That  fluid,  trans- 
parent, aerial  element,  which  opens  before  him,  and 
closes  after  his  passage,  is  his  natural  route ;  he  sustains 
himself  there  without  difficulty,  during  the  long  hours, 
and  from  that  height  he  sees  the  vague  landscapes  grow 
azure,  the  waters  become  mirrors,  and  the  edifice  dissolve 
in  a  vaporous  eclipse. 

Lamartine  is  not  one  of  those  poets,  those  marvellous 
artists,  who  hammer  verse  like  a  plate  of  gold  upon  a 
steel  anvil,  contracting  the  grain  of  the  metal,  imprint>- 
ing  upon  it  clear  and  precise  figures.  He  ignores  or 
disdains  all  these  questions  of  form,  and  with  the 
negligence  of  a  gentleman  who  rliymes  at  his  leisure 
without  confining  himself  more  than  is  needful  to  things 
belonging  to  the  trade,  he  composes  admirable  poetry 
traversing  the  woods  on  horseback,  in  a  barque  sailing 
along  some  shady  shore,  or  his  elbow  resting  on  a  M-in- 
dow  of  one  of  his  chS,teaux.  His  verses  roll  on  with 
a  melodious  murmur  like  the  waves  of  an  Italian  or 
Grecian  sea,  bearing  along  in  th«ir  transparent  scrolls, 
branches  of  laurel,  golden  fruit  fallen  from  the  shore, 
iiellections  of  the  sky,  the  birds,  the  sails,  and  break- 
ing upon  the  flats  in  sparkling  silver  fringes.  These 
are  the  unrolling  and  successions  of  undulating  forms, 
intangible  as  water,  but  which  rush  on  to  their 
goal,  and  upon  their  fluidity  can  bear  the  idea  as  the 
sea  bears  ships,  whether  they  be  the  frail  skiff  or  the 
stately  vessel. 

There  is  a  magic  charm  in  these  rhythmic  breathings, 
which  rise  and  fall  like  the  ocean's  breast ;  we  yield  our- 
selves up  to  this  melody  which  chants  its  rhyming  chorus 


ALPHONSE    DE    LAMARTINE.  149 

like  a  far-ofif  song  of  sailors  or  of  syrens.  Lamai  tine  L«i 
perhaps  the  greatest  musician  of  poetry. 

This  manner,  broad  and  vague,  is  well  suited  to  the 
lofty  spirituality  of  his  nature  ;  the  soul  has  no  need  of 
being  sculptured  like  a  Greek  marble.  Gleams,  melo- 
dious sounds,  opal  tints,  rainbow  gradations  of  color,  lu- 
nar blues,  diaphanous  gauzes,  aerial  draperies  lifted  and 
swollen  by  the  breeze,  sufficed  to  portray  it  and  to  envel- 
ope it.  For  Lamartine  seems  to  have  been  made  that 
phrase  of  the  ancients,  musa  ales. 

In  that  immortal  piece  "  The  Lake,"  where  passion, 
speaks  a  language  the  most  beautiful  which  music  has 
not  been  able  to  equal,  vaporous  nature  appears  as  it 
were  through  a  silver  gauze,  remote,  shadowy,  painted 
in  a  few  touches,  to  form  a  frame  and  serve  as  a  back- 
ground for  this  imperishable  remembrance;  and  yet  you 
see  all ;  the  light,  the  sky,  the  water,  the  rocks  and  the 
trees  upon  the  shore,  the  mountains  in  the  horizon,  and 
every  wave  which  throws  its  spray  at  the  adored  feet  of 
Elvira. 

We  need  not  believe  that  Lamartine,  because  there 
is  always  in  him  a  vibration  and  a  resonance  of  the  aeolian 
harp,  is  only  a  melodious  "  Lakist," —  and  knows  but  to 
breathe  softly,  melancholy  and  love.  If  he  has  the  sigh, 
he  has  also  the  speech  of  love ;  he  rules  as  easily  as  he 
charms.  That  angelic  voice  which  seems  to  come  from 
the  heights  of  heaven,  knows  how  to  assume,  if  need  be, 
the  evil  accents  of  man. 

At  Naples,  a  marriage,  resulting  from  one  of  those 
admirations  which  attract  women  to  the  poet  of  their 
dreams,  made  him  happy  and  rich.  An  English  lady, 
resembling  one  of  those  charming  and  romantic  heroines 
of  Shakespeare,  whom  a  glance  enthralls,  and  who  re- 
main faithful  to  death,  bestowed  upon  him  her  love  and 


150  LIFE    POKTKAITS. 

an  almost  princely  fortune.  France  saw  that  very  rare 
phenomena  with  her,  a  poet  who  was  not  poor,  and 
whom  fancy  could  transport  in  splendor  to  the  sun.  We 
pretend  to  believe  that  poverty,  that  harsh,  meagre  nurse, 
is  better  fitted  to  rear  genius  than  riches;  it  is  an  error. 
The  poet's  nature  is  prodigal,  improvident,  generousj 
friendly  to  luxury,  as  the  material  expression  of  beauty; 
it  loves  to  realize  its  caprices  in  its  verse  and  in  its  life;  • 
to  repose  amid  surroundings  whence  care  is  banished, 
as  a  dissonance,  as  something  ugly,  pitiful  and  prosaic  ; 
mathematics  repel  it  (Lamartine  had  a  horror  of  them 
and  regarded  them  as  obstacles  to  thought),  and  with  a 
hand  that  never  reckons,  it  takes  from  the  three  wells  of 
Aboul-Cassem  the  dinars  it  scatters  around  in  a  rain  of 
gold.  Being  impeded  by  none  of  those  sad  obstacles 
which  consume  the  better  part  of  the  strength  of  the 
greatest  minds,  Lamartine  could  give  his  genius  full  ex- 
pansion, and  the  chills  of  poverty  did  not  blight  its  mag- 
nificent flowers. 

To  the  "  Meditations  "  succeeded  the  "  Harmonies," 
where  the  poet's  wings  attained  the  most  sublime  heights, 
seeming  to  blend  their  flight  with  the  radiance  of  the 
stars.  There  are,  in  this  volume,  pieces  of  an  ineffable 
beauty  and  a  majestic  melancholy.  Never,  since  Job, 
has  the  human  soul,  in  face  of  the  awful  mysteries  of 
life  and  death,  raised  a  plaint  more  dismayed,  more  des- 
pairing, than  in  the  Novissima  Verba.  The  success  was 
immense,  but  although  the  work  was  superior,  its  vogue 
could  not  surpass  that  of  the  "  Meditations."  At  the 
very  outset,  admiration  had  given  to  Lamartine  all  she 
could  accord  to  man ;  she  had  exhausted  for  him  her 
flowers  and  her  adulation.  No  new  ray  could  find  place 
in  this  poet's  aureole  ;  the  splendors  of  his  noon  added 
nothing  to  the  briorhtiiess  of  his  dawn. 


ALPHOTTSE    DE    LAMARTINE.  151 

In  the  midst  of  this  triumphal  outburst,  Lamartine 
had  departed  on  his  voyage  to  the  Orient,  not  as  a  hum- 
ble pilgrim,  with  staff  and  scallop-shell,  but  in  royal  lux- 
ury, in  a  ship  freighted  by  himself,  and  bearing  to  the 
Emirs  presents  worthy  of  Haroun-al-Raschid.  When 
he  arrived,  he  travelled  with  caravans  of  Arabian  horses 
which  belonged  to  him,  bought  the  houses  where  he 
lodged,  and  pitched  in  the  desert  tents  as  splendid  as  the 
gold  and  purple  pavilions  of  Solomon.  Lord  Byron 
alone  had  made  poesy  travel  as  sumptuously.  The 
amazed  tribes  followed  with  acclamations  along  the 
route,  and  nothing  would  have  been  more  easy  to  our 
poet  than  to  have  bimself  proclaimed  Caliph.  Lady 
Esther  Stanhope,  that  far-seeing  English  woman  who 
dwelt  in  the  Lybian  desert,  offered  him  her  horse,  whose 
back,  in  its  folds,  formed  the  outline  of  a  sort  of  saddle, 
and  which  Hakem,  the  god  of  the  Drussians,  was  to 
mount  at  his  approaching  incarnation ;  and  as  she  prof- 
fered the  steed,  she  predicted  to  him  that  one  day  he 
would  hold  in  his  gentlemanly  hand,  the  destinies  of  his 
country. 

Amid  these  flatteries  and  seductions,  Lamartine  went 
on  tranquilly,  almost  indifferently,  as  a  grand  seignior 
whom  nothing  astonishes,  and  who  feels  himself  worthy 
of  all  homage.  With  a  benevolent  smile,  he  received 
these  adorations,  never  intoxicated  by  them.  It  was 
but  natural  that  he  should  be  handsome,  elegant,  rich, 
endowed  with  genius,  and  excite  the  admiration  and 
love  of  all  around  him. 

But  this  almost  superhuman  felicity  was  not  to  en- 
dure. The  ancient  Greeks  supposed  the  existence  of 
envious  divinities  whom  they  called  the  Moires^  and 
"whose  jealous  eyes  were  wounded  by  the  spectacle  of 
that  happiness  they  took  delight  in  blasting.     It  was  to 


152  LIFE   POKTRAITS. 

appease  these  Moires,  that  Polycrates,  when  too  happy, 
flung  into  the  sea  his  ring,  which  was  recovered  by  a 
fisherman.  Doubtless,  one  of  these  wicked  goddesses 
encountered  our  poet  in  his  triumphal  march,  and  was 
.enraged  at  this  splendor  and  renown,  at  this  concurrence 
of  marvellous  gifts.  She  put  forth  her  withered  hand, 
and  Julia,  the  adorable  child  who  accompanied  her 
father  into  this  luminous  country,  where  life  seemed  en- 
dowed with  new  energies,  bowed  her  head  like  a  flower, 
attacked  at  its  root  by  the  ploughshare,  and  the  vessel 
which  had  gone  forth  with  white  sails,  returned  with 
black  sails,  bringing  back  a  cofiin. 

Irreparable  sorrow,  eternal  despair,  wound  that  noth- 
ing can  close,  and  which  must  bleed  forever  !  There  is 
a  grief  which  wishes  no  consolation ;  and  without  doubt, 
as  an  expiation  of  their  glory,  it  was  ordained  that  the 
two  greatest  poets  of  our  time  should  experience  it. 

The  Muse  alone,  with  her  rhymes,  can  rock  and  some- 
times lull  to  rest  this  regret  for  the  addred  being,  lost 
without  apparent  reason.  Lamartine  now  gave  to  the 
world  his  "  Jocelyn,"  a  tender  and  pure  epic  of  the  soul, 
where  are  not  recounted  the  brilliant  adventures  of  a 
hero,  but  the  obscure  sufferings  of  an  humble,  unknown 
heart.  It  is  a  delicate  chef-d'ceuvra,  full  of  emotion  and 
of  tears,  of  an  Alj)ine  whiteness,  virginal  as  the  snow  of 
lofty  mountain-summits,  where  no  impure  breath  has  come, 
and  where  the  love  which  ignores  itself  is  so  chaste  it 
might  be  contemplated  by  the  angels.  No  success  was 
more  sympathetic,  no  book  was  read  with  more  avidity,  or 
more  bathed  in  tears. 

"  The  Angel's  Fall "  was  less  comprehended.  Those 
magnificent  fragments,  of  a  splendid  Oriental  coloring, 
which  seemed  like  leaves  detached  from  the  Bible,  won 
only  a  half-favor  from  the  strangeness  of  the  subject,  and 


ALPHONSE    DE    LAMARTINE.  153 

the  oddity  of  the  pictures  drawn  from  a  world  anterior 
to  ours ;  from  the  exaggerated  grandeur  of  personages 
outside  of  human  nature,  and  also,  it  must  be  confessed, 
form  a  negligence,  in  form  and  execution,  increasing  a*? 
the  work  progresses. 

After  the  publication  of  his  "  Poetic  Reflections," 
prolonged  vibrations,  last  echoes  of  the  "  Meditations," 
and  the  "  Harmonies,"  our  poet  bade  adieu  to  the  Muse, 
and  laid  down  the  lyre  never  to  take  it  up  again.  The 
desire  for  a  practical,  active  life  took  possession  of  him. 
He  had  been  attached  to  an  embassy  and  body-guard ; 
he  wished  to  be  deputy.  People  who  believed  them- 
selves serious  because  they  were  prosaic,  and  ignored 
the  fact  that  poesy  alone  acts  upon  the  soul,  and  that 
imagination  draws  along  the  crowd,  sneered,  as  they 
saw  the  dreamer  whom  they  called  "  the  singer  of  Elvi- 
ra," approach  the  tribune  ;  but  they  soon  comprehended 
that  he  who  knows  how  to  sing,  knows  how  to  speak, 
and  that  the  poet  has  a  mouth  of  gold.  From  these  me- 
lodious lips,  the  speeches  flew  winged,  vibrating,  having, 
like  the  bee,  hone}"  and  a  sting.  Poetry  easily  trans- 
formed itself  into  eloquence,  for  poetry  has  passion, 
warmth,  thought,  generous  sentiment,  a  prophetic  in- 
stinct ;  and,  whatever  people  may  say  to  the  contrary,  that 
elevated  and  supreme  reason  which  surveys  things  from 
a  lofty  height,  and  allows  the  general  truth  to  be  dis- 
turbed by  no  accident. 

The  Girondists  brought  about  a  revolution,  or  at  least 
they  largely  contrihuted  to  it.  Lamartine  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  waves  he  had  let  loose,  and  which 
rolled  at  his  very  feet,  full  of  foam,  of  uproar,  whirling 
in  their  furious  coils  the  wrecks  of  the  submerged  mon- 
archy.    He  accepted  the  mission  of    haranguing  this 

tumultuous  sea,  of  reasoning  with  this  tempest,  of  re- 

7* 


154  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

taining  the  thunderbolt  within  the  cloud.  Dangerous 
mission,  which  he  accomplished  like  a  gentleman  and  a 
hero  !  You  could  then  see  that  all  poets  were  not  coward- 
ly like  Horace,  who  fled  from  the  battle-field  not  hene  relic 
ta  parmula.  He  had  charmed  ferocious  instincts,  and 
amid  the  roar  of  the  insurrection  rising  beneath  his  bal- 
cony, the  deluded  mob  called  upon  him  to  come  out  and 
let  liimself  be  seen  and  heard.  As  soon  as  he  appeared 
the  mob  was  silent ;  it  awaited  some  noble  words,  some 
austere  counsels,  some  generous  thoughts,  and^it  with- 
drew satisfied,  bearing  away  a  germ  of  devotion,  human- 
ity and  harmony. 

The  poet  exposed  himself  to  the  ball  that  might  be 
sent  from  the  pistol  of  a  too  advanced  Utopian  or  a  too 
conservative  fanatic,  with  that  elegant  disdain  of  a  gen- 
tleman despising  death  as  vulgar  and  common ;  a  supe- 
rior dandyism,  difiScult  for  the  common  people  to  imitate. 
If  he  voluntarily  threw  himself  into  this  gulf  at  the  peril 
of  his  life,  it  was  not  that  he  had  any  personal  inter- 
ests there.  We  saw  a  strange  thing  in  modern  civiliza- 
tion, a  man  in  the  full  light  of  day,  play  in  his  own  per- 
son the  role  of  Tyrtean  moderator,  of  an  Orpheus  tam- 
ing ferocious  beasts,  doctus  lenire  tigris,  urging  forward 
the  good,  putting  away  the  evil,  and  making  the  idea  of 
harmony  and  beauty  soar  above  disorder.  Without  po- 
lice, without  an  army,  without  any  repressive  means, 
through  pure  poetry,  he  kept  a  whole  people  in  effer- 
vescence ;  he  said  to  the  extreme  republicans,  these  sub- 
lime words :  "  The  tri-colored  flag  has  made  the  tour 
of  the  world  with  our  glories ;  the  red  flag  has  made 
only  the  tour  of  the  Champ-de-Mars,  trailing  in  the 
blood  of  the  people."  And  the  three  colors  continued 
to  float  victoriously  in  the  air. 

In  this  game,  with  the  most  generous  thoughtlessness 


ALPHONSE    DE    LAM.IRTINE.  155 

he  dissipated  his  genius,  his  health,  his  fortune.  He 
made  the  greatest  human  effort  which  had  ever  been 
essayed ;  he  withstood  alorva  an  unbridled  mob.  For 
several  days,  he  saved  France,  giving  her  time  to  await 
a  better  destiny  ;  and  as  nothing  is  so  ungrateful  as  fear 
when  the  peril  is  past,  he  lost  his  popularity.  Those 
who  owed  him  their  heads  perhaps,  their  wealth  and 
their  security  most  certainly,  found  him  ridiculous,  when, 
after  having  thrown  to  the  winds,  for  their  profit,  all 
his  treasures,  with  the  noble  confidence  of  a  poet,  who 
believes  that  he  may  demand  back  a  drachma  for  a  tal- 
ent from  those  he  has  charmed  and  saved,  he  seated 
himself  upon  the  threshold  of  his  ruined  fortune,  and 
extending  his  helmet,  said ;  Date  oholum  Belisario.  Debt 
was  behind  him  jogging  his  elbow. 

Certainly  he  was  great  gentleman  enough  to  play  with 
his  creditor  the  scene  between  Don  Juan  and  M.  Di- 
manche,  but  he  did  not  wish  it ;  and  France  had  the  sad 
spectacle  of  her  aging  poet,  bent  down  from  morn  to 
eve  under  the  yoke  of  nnremunerative  literary  toil. 
This  demi-god  with  reminiscences  of  heaven,  wrote  ro- 
mances, fragments  and  articles  like  us.  Pegasus  traced 
out  his  furrow,  dragging  the  plough,  when  one  sweep  of 
his  pinions  might  have  borne  him  to  the  stars. 


GAYARNI. 

(^Sulpice  Paul  Chevalier.^ 

BOKN  1801— DIED  1866. 

The  ancient  world  still  rules  us,  as  it  did  far  back  in 
the  ages,  and  so  arbitrary  is  this  rule,  that  we  scarce 
have  a  sentiment  of  the  civilization  which  surrounds  us. 
Despite  the  efforts  of  Paris  and  London,  Athens  and 
Rome  remain  the  capitals  of  thought.  Every  year,  thou- 
sands of  young  Romans  and  Grecians  leave  our  colleges, 
knowing  nothing  of  modern  things.  "We  yield  to  none 
in  admiration  of  this  persistent  energy  of  the  ideal,  this 
eternal  power  of  the  beautiful,  but  is  it  not  singular 
that  art  so  little  reflects  the  cotemporary  epoch  ?  Classic 
studies  inspire  a  profound  disdain  for  actual  usages, 
manners  and  customs,  which  find  so  little  expression  in 
monuments,  bas-reliefs,  medallions  and  bronzes.  The 
future  Desobrys  will  be  greatly  embarrassed  in  recon- 
structing from  these  a  Paris  of  the  age  of  Napoleon  III, 

For  instance,  what  idea  could  one  form  in  the  year 
3000,  of  our  women  of  fashion,  of  our  celebrated  beauties, 
of  those  we  have  loved,  and  for  whose  sake  we  have 
committed  more  or  less  follies,  when  like  them,  the 
works  of  most  of  our  masters  have  disappeared  ? 

Ingres   was   an  Athenian,  a  scholar  of  Apelles  and 


GAYARNI.  157 

Phidias,  whose  soul  was  evidently  deceived  as  to  its 
century,  and  entered  the  world,  two  thousand  four  hun- 
dred years  too  late ;  his  pictures  might  take  their  place 
in  the  pinacotheque  of  the  Propyloea ;  the  style  of  his 
portraits  makes  them  antique,  and  deprives  them  of  all 
date,  to  render  them  eternal.  Delacroix  seldom  leaves 
history,  the  Orient  or  Shakspeare ;  in  his  numerous 
works,  we  scarce  find  a  type  of  our  day  ;  without  attach- 
ing himself,  like  Ingres,  to  antiquity,  he  goes  back  to 
the  Venetians  and  the  Flemmings,  and  has  nothing 
modern  but  disquietude  and  passion.  He  has  composed 
his  microcosm  by  a  sort  of  interior  vision,  and  we  should 
say  that  he  has  not  even  once  cast  his  eyes  around  him. 
What  we  say  here  of  these  two  illustrious  masters,  who 
represent,  among  us,  the  two  phases  of  art,  applies  to 
others  with  equal  rigor.  The  realistic  essays  of  these 
latter  times  seek  the  deformed  ideal  more  than  the 
exact  reproduction  of  nature.  These  few  true  types  of 
genre  pictures  are  almost  all  taken  from  the  rustic  class, 
and  we  may  say  in  all  assurance,  that  neither  the  men 
or  women  of  fashionable  life,  nor  scarce  one  of  the  thou- 
sand actors  of  the  society  of  our  nineteenth  century, 
has  left  a  trace  in  the  serious  art  of  our  time. 

Certainly,  the  Venus  de  Milo  is  an  admirable  piece  of 
sculpture,  lovingly  polished  by  the  Idsses  of  centuries  ; 
the  supreme  of  the  beautiful,  the  most  successful  effort 
of  human  genius  to  embody  the  ideal,  and  we  adore  this 
sublime  marble  whose  divinity  none  can  deny.  But 
have  the  Parisian  women  not  also  their  charms  ?  If 
sculpture  wished,  could  it  not  find  pure  outlines  in  their 
elegant  forms  so  charmingly  arraj^ed  ?  The  drapery  of 
Polyhymnia  folds  .itself  in  no  more  supple  manner  than 
these  grand  Indian  shawls  embrace  the  shoulders  of  our 
queenly,    well    dressed   women.       Ileiurich    Heine,    the 


158  LIFE    PORTEAITS. 

great  plastic,  "was  not  easily  deceived,  and  he  admired  a 
Parisian  woman  in  her  shawl,  as  he  would  have  admired 
a  Grecian  goddess  in  her  Parian  tunic.  As  for  Balzac, 
he  certainly  preferred  to  every  feminine  Olympian, 
even  to  Venus,  "adorably  exhausted,"  as  Goethe  said, 
the  grand  ladies  he  enshrines  in  his  works.  Are  they, 
then,  unworthy  of  a  medallion,  these  charming  faces  of 
a  roseate  pallor,  enframed  in  their  fresh  hats  like  the 
heads  of  angels  smiling  from  their  ideal  aureoles,  with 
hair  wavy  or  in  braids,  Praxiteles  would  not  wish  to 
disarrange,  if  he  had  to  copy  them  in  marble?  Ball 
coiffures,  do  they  not  offer  to  the  intelligent  artist  all 
imaginable  resources,  pearls,  flowers,  plumes,  sprays, 
network,  tassels,  lustrous  ribbons,  delicate  spirals,  rebel- 
lious frizzes,  fluttering  curls,  chignons  twisted  like  the 
horn  of  Ammon  or  negligently  attached  ?  The  robes, 
despite  the  passing  exaggeration  of  flounces  and  trim- 
mings, with  their  richness  of  brocades,  moires  and  satins, 
the  rustle  and  glitter  of  taffetas,  the  transparency  of 
laces,  gauzes,  tulles  and  tarletans,  wdth  the  lustre,  the 
softness  and  the  variety  of  tones,  seem  to  invite  the 
brush  of  the  colorist,  and  present  to  him  a  pallet  of 
seductive  shades ;  but  the  colorist  does  not  regard  these 
bouquets  of  all  blossoming  hues  in  the  promenades,  at 
the  soirees,  at  the  boxes  of  the  theatres.  He  prefers  to 
soak  his  brush  in  the  ruddy  gold  of  Rembrandt,  the  pale 
silver  of  Paul  Veronese,  or  the  glowing  jDurple  of  Rubens, 
while  the  sculptor  in  the  public  square,  disrobes  some 
frail  nymph,  utterly  ashamed  and  disquieted  at  her 
nudity. 

Leaving  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans  aside,  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  Raphael,  Andre  del  Sarto,  .Titian,  have  given 
to  the  beauties  of  their  time  eternal  testimonials,  at 
which  in  the  galleries,  poets  dreamily  gaze,  while  their 


GAVARNI.  159 

hearts  are  moved  by  an  irresistible  retrospective  desire. 
There  is  not  a  celebrated  woman  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury, princess,  courtesan,  mistress  of  grand-duke  or  pain- 
ter, who  has  not  bequeathed  to  us  her  image  divinized 
by  art.  Our  epoch  will  transmit  no  such  legacy  to  future 
ages ;  the  woman  of  to-day  seems  to  have  intimidated 
our  artists,  the  fear  of  falling  back  into  the  false,  classic 
ideal,  has  energetically  pursued  them,  and  they  have 
occupied  themselves  very  little  with  modern  beauty ;  to 
find  any  trace  of  this,  it  will  be  necessary,  in  future,  to 
conKLilt  the  portraits  executed  by  certain  fashionable 
painters,  whose  end  has  been  to  satisfy  the  taste  of  fash- 
iona  ble  people  rather  than  answer  the  rigorous  exigencies 
of  art. 

This  preamble,  which  may  seem  rather  long,  was  need- 
ed, to  make  the  reader  comprehend  the  whole  originality 
of  Gavarni,  and  the  value  of  his  scattered  work  in  books, 
in  albums,  in  series  and  in  detached  engravings.  He 
has  neither  predecessors  nor  rivals  in  our  day ;  his  is 
not  the  mediocre  glory  of  being  frankly,  exclusively, 
absolutely  modern ;  like  Balzac,  to  whom  he  has  more 
than  one  resemblance,  he  has  composed  his  "  Human 
Comedy,"  less  broad  and  less  universal  doubtless,  but 
very  complete  of  its  kind,  although  lightly  done.  Gav- 
arni, the  grand  designer  and  anatomist  in  his  way,  has 
no  care  for  sculptured  or  traditional  forms.  He  designs 
men,  and  not  elaborate  statues.  None  better  than  he 
knows  the  poor  framework  of  our  bodies,  marred  by 
civilization  ;  he  understands  the  meagreness,  the  defects, 
the  baldness  of  Parisian  dandies,  the  grotesque  embon- 
points, the  flabby  wrinkles,  the  crows'  feet,  the  bandy 
knees  andlegs  of  bankers  and  studious  men,and  he  clothes 
all  these  people  as  Ohevreuil  or  Renard  would  have  done ; 
with  one  stroke  of  the  pencil  he  transforms  a  paletot 


160  LIFE    PORTK.UTS. 

into  a  sack,  and  makes  each  vestment  conform  to  the 
stature,  the  character,  the  peculiarities  of  the  wearer. 

If  you  would  seek  the  Parisian  of  1850  in  our  day, 
with  his  costume,  his  air,  his  attitude  and  his  physiog- 
nomy, without  falseliood  and  without  caricature,  and 
only  idealized  by  that  fine  treatment  which  is  the  very 
soul  of  the  artist,  turn  over  the  pages  of  Gavarni's  work. 
He  will  soon  be  as  instructive  as  the  engravings  of 
Gravelot,  of  Eisen,  of  Moreau,  and  as  the  water-colors 
of  Baudoin  during  the  last  century.  But  the  greatest 
glory  of  Gavarni,  lies  in  having  comprehended  the  Par- 
isian disdained ;  as  impossible  by  cotemporary  art;  he  has 
also  comprehended  the  Parisian  woman  !  He  has  not 
only  comprehended  her,  but  loved  her. 

He  has  not  cared  much  for  the  figures  of  the  Par- 
thenon, neither  for  the  Venus  de  Milo,  nor  for  the  Diana 
of  Gabies  ;  but  he  has  found  a  very  sufficient  ideal  in 
the  little  irregular  face  of  the  Parisian  woman,  Avhose 
dainty  ugliness  is  still  grace ;  if  the  nose  does  not  form 
a  straight  line  with  the  forehead,  if  the  cheeks  are  jnore 
round  than  oval,  if  the  mouth  turns  up  at  the  corners, 
if  the  neck  is  fragile,  and  does  not  offer  the  three  folds, 
of  the  neck  of  Aphrodite,  if  the  form  is  not  perfect, 
what  matters  it?  It  is  not  an  antique  nymph  he  wishes 
to  delineate,  but  the  woman  who  passes  by,  and  whom 
you  follow.  He  does  not  lithograph  her  after  the  de- 
formity, but  after  the  life. 

Long  before  Alexander  Dumas  fils,  Gavarni  had  cray- 
oned the  Dame  aux  Camellias^  and  related — drawing 
and  legend — the  chronicle  of  the  demi-monde,  with  what 
grace,  what  delicate  verve,  what  perfect  propriety !  Tlie 
lorette,  thanks  to  Roqueplan,  wh3  has  baptized  her,  and 
to  Gavarni  who  has  fixed  the  fugitive  description,  will 
go  down  to  the  most  remote  posterity ;  this  is  neither 


GAVAENI.  161 

the  Greek  hetaire,  nor  the  Roman  courtesan,  nor  the 
impure  woman  of  the  Regency,  nor  the  mistress  of  the 
Empire,  nor  the  grisette  of  the  Restoration;  but  an 
especial  product  of  our  busy  life,  the  informal  mistress 
of  an  age  which  has  no  time  to  be  amorous,  and  which 
is  too  much  ennuyed  at  home.  They  have  been  more 
or  less  figurantes,  actresses,  pianistes;  they  know  the 
slang  of  the  gaming  table,  of  the  studio,  of  the  coulisses, 
they  dance  and  waltz  admirably,  sing  a  little,  and  make 
cigarettes  like  Spanish  smugglers — a  few  of  them  even 
know  how  to  spell — but  their  principal  talent  lies  in 
practising  forbearance,  and  in  success.  As  for  their 
sacred  toilettes,  the  dancing-girls  of  the  pagoda  of  Ben- 
ares are  not  more  exact  in  descending  the  white  marble 
staircase  leading  to  the  Ganges,  and  in  making  their 
ablutions  in  the  sacred  rivers.  In  dress,  it  is  only  the 
Parlsienne  by  birth  who  distinguishes  herself  by  some 
excessive  luxury  or  some  slight  negligence,  from  other 
women  of  fashion ;  foreigners  almost  always  fail  here, 
even  the  Russian  women,  who  are  so  Frencli.  Some- 
times they  are  not  in  the  fashion  of  to-day,  but  in  that 
of  to-morrow.  They  know  how  to  wear  everything, 
moire-antique,  velvet,  the  plumed  hat,  the  Chantilly 
lace  mantle,  the  tight  boot,  the  man's  collar,  the  Amazon 
wrap — all  except  a  cashmere  long-shawl ;  that  is  the 
superiority  of  the  virtuous  woman ;  no  dame  aux  oam- 
ellias,T\o\ovQtiQ  can  resist  the  temptation  of  drawing  in 
the  shawl  with  her  elbows,  to  display  the  fine  contours 
of  her  form. 

Gavarui  seized  all  shades,  he  expressed  them  with  a 
rapid  and  facile  pencil,  always  sure  of  itself.  With 
him,  we  enter  the  silk-hung  boudoirs  full  of  china  and 
old  Sevres  vases,  where  are  mirrored  Venetian  glasses, 
and  gilded  candelabras,.  and  we  see,  inclining  upon  a 


1C2  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

divan,  the  divinity  of  the  place,  clad  in  an  ample  dressing" 
gown  not  confined  at  the  girdle,  making  her  slipper 
dance  upon  the  tips  of  her  bare  toes,  and  emitting 
from  her  rosy  lips  the  smoke  of  a  papelito,  while  a 
female  friend  imparts  to  her  some  droll  confidence,  and 
a  gentleman,  more  or  less  wrinkled,  gnaws  at  the  head 
of  his  cane,  meditating  some  declaration.  Furniture, 
costumes,  accessories,  fashions — all  is  rendered  with  per- 
fect propriety,  with  a  strict  modernness,  which  no  other 
artist  possesses  in  the  same  degree.  Every  gesture  is 
true,  just,  actual  ;  this  is  precisely  as  we  sit  down,  as  we 
rise,  as  we  hold  our  hat,  as  we  draw  on  our  gloves,  as  we 
salute,  as  we  open  and  close  the  door ;  under  these  pale- 
tots, talmas,  and  overcoats,  the  body  always  assrerts  itself, 
which  does  not  always  happen  under  the  pseudo  antique 
draperies  of  historical  painting ;  for  we  have  said  above, 
that  Gavarni  is  a  great  anatomist. 

The  woman  of  our  day,  absent  from  painting,  lives 
again  in  these  historic  lithographs  of  our  artist,  with 
her  coquettish  mannerism,  her  spiritual  grace,  her  irregu- 
lar elegance,  her  problematical  but  irresistible  beauty. 
What  eyes  to  catch  larks !  What  a  nose,  h  la  Roxalane, 
turned  up  by  the  finger  of  caprice  !  What  pretty  dim- 
ples for  nestling  loves !  What  delicate  chins,  gently 
rounding  above  a  knot  of  ribbon  !  What  fresh  cheeks, 
caressed  by  a  curl  of  hair!  What  delicious  realities, 
and  what  adorable  falsehoods,  under  this  flood  of  lace, 
cambric  and  silk  !  Truly  it  is  not  the  most  beautiful, 
the  purest,  the  noblest  type,  neither  is  it  the  supreme 
expression  of  the  feminine  beauty  of  our  epoch ;  but 
Gavarni  has  none  the  less  rendered  one  of  the  phases 
of  modern  beauty. 

The  carnival  of  Paris,  to  which  is  wanting  only  the 
Piazza,  the  Piazetta  and  the  Grand  C Anal  to  eclipse  the 


GAVAENI.  1G3 

ancient  Venetian  carnival,  has  found  in  Gavarni  its 
painter  and  its  historian.  Here  amid  the  dazzling  whirl- 
wind, the  smoky  light  of  the  lustres,  the  din  of  voices 
and  of  the  orchestra,  the  artist  has  seized  every  type, 
every  air,  every  physiognomy.  He  lends  his  mind  to 
all  these  perhaps  stupid  masks ;  he  sums  up,  in  one 
expressive  word,  the  fireside  chat ;  he  translates  into  a 
droll  legend  the  hoarse  discordant  voices  of  the  hall ; 
he  takes  his  characters  to  the  Caf^  Anglais,  to  the 
Maison  d'Or,  as  best  befits  each,  and  intoxicates  them 
with  his  poetical  raptures,  more  exhilarating,  more 
foamy  than  the  wine  of  Champagne ! 

Who  does  not  know  his  "Enfants  Terribles,"  and 
especially  his  "  Parents  Terribles?  "  The  former  betray, 
the  latter  disenchant  all.  The  whole  series  is  so  vivid 
in  treatment,  so  profound  in  philosophy,  that  we  are 
never  weary  of  turning  over  the  leaves.  The  words 
accompanying  each  plate,  are  sometimes  a  comedy,  often 
a  vaudeville,  always  a  maxim  worthy  of  Larochefoucauld. 
How  much  the  vaudevilleists  and  the  review-writers 
have  borrowed  from  these  incisive  outlines !  Do  not 
imagine  that  because  he  has  especially  portrayed  the 
Bohemian  of  pleasure,  that  Gavarni  has  no  moral  sense ; 
look  over  his  album  entitled  "  Old  Lorettes,"  and  you 
will  see  that  his  lithographic  pencil  knows  how  to 
punish  vice  as  well  as  the  brush  of  Hogarth  has  done ; 
these  frayed  skirts,  these  tartans  with  flabby  folds,  this 
dilapidated  head-gear,  these  boots  that  let  in  the  water, 
these  wan  faces,  these  hollow  cheeks,  these  shrivelled 
mouths,  these  eyes  ruined  by  bistre,  well  compensate  for 
robes  with  thirty-two  flounces,  for  cashmere  shawls  trail- 
ing upon  the  ground,  for  red-heeled  gaiters  and  all  the 
insolent  luxury  of  the  past.  We  can  pardon  them,  these 
poor  girls,  for  having  been  pretty,  superb  and  triumphant. 


164  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

"  Thomas  Vireloque,"  although  a  little  of  a  misan- 
thrope, is  also  a  good  comrade ;  Diogenes,  Rabelais  and 
Sancho  Panza  would  acquiesce  in  more  than  one  of  his 
aphorisms.     This  creation  of  Gavarni's  will  live. 

In  this  rapid  sketch  we  have  attempted  no  description 
of  the  innumerable  works  of  this  master ; — in  only  one 
branch  of  his  work  we  have  sought  to  outline  through 
its  principal  features,  the  characteristics  of  this  artist, 
so  original,  so  living,  so  modern,  that  criticism,  too 
much  occupied  with  pretended  serious  talent,  has  not 
studied  him  with  the  attention  he  most  certainly 
deserves. 


The  name  Gavarni  has  rendered  illustrious  is  not 
his  own ;  he  calls  himself  Sulpice  Paul  Chevalier.  In 
one  of  his  first  publications,  he  assumed  this  gTaceful 
pseudonym,  which  so  well  accords  with  his  brisk,  elegant 
and  untrammelled  talent.  Gavarni's  beginnings  were 
pitiable,  and  it  was  only  when  he  had  rounded  the  cape 
of  the  thirties,  that  he  began  to  emerge  from  the  shadow, 
and  to  take  his  place  in  the  sunlight.  We  knew  him 
at  this  time.  He  was  a  handsome  young  man,  with 
abundant  blonde  locks,  in  frizzed,  tufted  curls,  very 
careful  of  his  person,  very  fashionable  in  his  dress, 
having  something  English  in  the  rigid  details  of  his 
toilet,  and  possessing  in  the  highest  degree,  the  senti- 
ment of  modern  elegance.  He  worked  only  in  a  black 
velvet  jacket,  in  pantaloons  of  the  best  cut,  in  a  frilled 
shirt  of  fine  cambric,  in  polished  shoes  with  red  heels, 
just  as  he  can  be  seen  in  a  picture  of  himself  in  one  of 
the  illustrated  publications  of  Hetzel.  He  had  rather 
the  air  of  a  dandy  amusing  himself  with  art,  than  of  an 


GAYARXI.  165 

artist,  in  tlie  rather  extraordinary  signification  we  usu- 
all}^  attach  to  this  word;  and  yet,  what  an  obstinate, 
what  an  incessant,  what  a  fruitful  worker !  You  could 
build  an  immense  houso  with  the  lithographic  stones  ho 
has  designed. 

We  may  say  that  Gavarni,  although  very  well  known, 
very  much  in  fashion  and  very  celebrated,  has  not  been 
appreciated  at  his  just  value,  neither  has  Raffet  nor 
Daumier,  nor  Gustave  Dore,  brilliant  as  is  his  reputation. 
In  France,  we  love  sterile  talents  and  have  a  strange 
prejudice  against  fecundity.  How  believe  in  the  merit 
of  those  multiplied  works,  which  come  to  you  every 
morning,  under  the  form  of  the  journal  or  the  current 
number  of  a  series,  especially  when  they  are  lively, 
witty,  taken  from  our  very  manners,  full  of  fire,  warmth 
and  force,  original  in  thought  and  execution,  owing 
nothing  to  the  antique,  expressing  our  loves,  our  aver- 
sions, our  tastes,  our  caprices,  our  absurdities,  the 
garments  in  which  we  are  clothed,  the  types  of  grace  or 
coquetry  which  please  us,  the  surroundings  amid  which 
we  pass  our  lives  ?  All  this  does  not  seem  serious  art ; 
and  such  persons  as  admire  a  nude  Ajax,  Theseus,  and 
Philoctetes,  are  inclined  to  treat  Gavarni's  Parisians  as 
very  simple,  mediocre  productions. 

No  one  better  than  Gavarni  knows  how  to  place  a 
black  coat  upon  a  modern  form,  and  this  is  not  an  easy 
thing.  Under  this  coat,  the  artist,  with  three  strokes 
of  his  pencil,  knows  how  to  create  a  human  armor  with 
correct  articulations,  and  easy  movements;  in  a  word,  a 
living  being,  capable  of  motion,  of  going  and  coming. 
Very  often  Delacroix  might  regard  with  a  dreamy  eye, 
these  designs  apparently  so  frivolous,  and  yet  of  a  science 
so  profound.  He  would  be  astonished  at  this  perfect 
aplomb,  at  this  cohesion  of  the  members,  at  these  com- 


166  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

posed  attitudes,  at  this  mimicry  so  simple  and  so  natural. 
Every  year  rendered  the  drawing  of  Gavarni  more  sup- 
ple, free  and  broad ;  pencil  nor  lithographic  stone  offered 
him  further  resistance,  and  he  did  with  them  what 
he  would.  In  this  nature  of  such  peculiar  originalit}-, 
beside  the  artist,  there  was  a  philosopher,  a  writer, 
who  in  two  lines  below  his  plates,  has  written  more 
comedies,  vaudevilles  and  studies  upon  manners,  than 
all  the  authors  of  this  day  together.  Gavarni  has  been 
the  wit  of  this  epoch,  and  almost  all  the  noted  sayings  of 
these  last  years  have  come  from  him.  His  influence, 
without  being  confessed,  has  been  very  great ;  he  has 
invented  a  carnival  more  amusing,  more  fantastic  and 
more  picturesque,  than  the  old  carnival  of  Venice.  His 
types,  which  we  believe  copies,  are  creations,  and  later^ 
the  reality  imitates  the  design.  It  is  he  who  has  made 
live  in  his  life  of  art,  all  the  Bohemians,  the  student, 
the  lorette ;  he  has  shown  the  deceits  of  women,  the 
terrible  frankness  of  children,  what  we  say  and  what  we 
think,  not  as  a  morose  sermonizer,  after  the  manner  of 
Hogarth,  but  as  an  indulgent  moralist  who  knows 
human  frailty,  and  who  pardons  it  for  a  great  deal. 

But  they  who  believe  Gavarni  only  graceful,  witty,  and 
elegant,  greatly  err.  His  old  lorettes,  with  their  comical 
yet  deathly  legends,  reach  the  terrible.  Thomas  Virelo- 
que,  his  rags  torn  in  all  the  brambles,  from  his  half-blinded 
ejes,  throws  a  glance  upon  humanity,  as  clairvoyant,  as 
profound,  as  cynical  as  Rabelais,  Swift  or  Voltaire. 
From  the  wretched  beings  he  saw  in  Saint  Giles  during 
his  sojourn  at.  London,  Gavarni  brought  home  fright- 
ful silhouettes,  sinister  phantoms,  more  hideous  and 
more  lamentable  than  the  visions  of  nightmare. 

His  manner  of  composing  was  singular  ;  he  began  to 
toy  around  the  stone  without  a  subject,  without  a  fixed 


GAVAKNI.  167 

design ;  little  by  little,  the  figures  detached  themselves, 
assumed  an  existence,  a  physiognomy ;  they  went  and 
came,  they  gave  themselves  up  to  any  action  whatever. 
G a  ;"i;.rni  listened  to  them,  sought  to  divine  what  they 
said  as  when  we  see  two  unknown  persons  walk  ges- 
ticulating, upon  the  boulevard.  Then,  when  he  had 
caught  the  characteristic  word,  he  wrote  his  legend,  or 
raliier,  he  dictated  it,  for  it  was  another  hand  that 
moulded  the  letter. 

For  some  years,  Gavarni  had  rather  neglected  draw- 
ing. His  mind,  at  all  times  a  lover  of  the  exact  sciences, 
inclined  towards  mathematical  heights,  and  devoted 
itself  to  the  pursuit  of  arduous  problems,  to  which  it 
found  curious  and  new  solutions.  He  took  delight  in 
this  world  of  computation,  where  we  see  numbers  in- 
crease to  infinity,  and  produce  the  most  astonishing 
combinations.  He  was  not  one  of  those  chimerical 
persons  who  seek  the  quadrature  of  the  circle  or  per- 
petual motion ;  but  rather  a  savant  upon  whom  the 
Institute  would  have  set  value. 

He  died  in  that  villa  of  Auteuil,  where  we  were  his 
neighbor  a  score  of  years  ago,  and  whose  garden,  since 
invaded  by  a  railway,  contained  only  tre€s  of  persistent 
foliage,  cedars,  pines,  larches,  arbor-vitse,  box,  holly, 
evergreens,  ivies,  firs,  and  whose  sombre  verdure  made 
it  rost^mble  the  garden  of  a  cemetery.  It  appears  that 
this  collection  of  trees  was  unrivalled,  and  the  horticul- 
tural artist  attached  the  greatest  value  to  it. 


W^ 


CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE. 

BORN   1821 ^DIED  1867. 

Although  his  existence  was  short — he  lived  scarce 
forty-six  years — Charles  Baudelaire  had  time  to  assert 
himself,  and  to  write  his  name  upon  that  wall  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  inscribed  already  with  so  many 
signatures,  destined  to  endure.  Do  not  doubt  that  his 
will  remain  there,  for  it  represents  an  original  and  pow- 
erful talent,  disdainful  to  excess  of  those  feudal  services 
which  make  popularity  easy,  loving  only  the  rare,  the 
dilficult  and  the  strange,  possessed  of  an  elevated  lit- 
erary conscience ;  amid  the  necessities  of  life,  abandon- 
ing a  work  only  when  he  believed  it  perfect,  weighing 
every  word  as  misers  might  weigh  a  suspected  ducat, 
revising  a  proof  ten  times,  submitting  the  poet  in  him  to 
the  most  subtile  criticism,  and  with  unwearying  effort, 
s*^eking  the  particular  ideal  he  had  formed  for  liim- 
self. 

Born  in  India,  and  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the 
English  language,  he  made  his  debut  by  translations  from 
Edgar  Poe,  so  excellent  that  they  seemed  original  works, 
and  made  the  thought  of  the  author  gain  in  passing 
from  one  idiom  to  the  other.  Baudelaire  has  naturalized  in 
France  that  imaginative  mind  so  wildly  grotesque,  and  so 
bizarre^  that  compared  with  it  Hoffmann  is  i  o  more  than 


CHAELES    BAUDELAIRE.  169 

a  fantastic  Paul  de  Kock.  Thanks  to  Baudelaire,  we 
have  had  the  surprise  of  a  literary  flavor  totally  un- 
knojvn.  Our  intellectual  palate  has  been  astonished, 
as  when  at  the  Universal  Exposition,  we  drank  some  of 
those  American  draughts,  a  foaming  mixture  of  ice, 
soda  water,  ginger  and  other  exotic  ingredients.  Into 
what  giddy  intoxication  we  were  thrown  by  reading 
tlie  "Golden  Bug,"  the  "Usher  House."  "The  Case  of 
Mr.  Waldemar,"  "  King  Pestilence,"  the  "  Monosuna ;  " 
and  all  those  extraordinary  histories !  These  fantastic 
tales  excited  public  curiosity  to  the  highest  pitch,  and 
the  name  of  Baudelaire  became,  in  some  sort,  insepar- 
able from  the  name  of  the  American  author. 

These  translations  were  preceded  by  a  most  interest- 
ing study  upon  Edgar  Poe  from  a  biographical  and 
metaphysical  point  of  view.  One  could  not  in  a  more 
subtle  manner  analyze  this  genius  of  an  eccentricity 
which  almost  seemed  to  border  upon  madness,  and 
whose  gi-oundwork  is  a  pitiless  logic,  pushing  the  conse- 
quences of  an  idea  to  their  end.  This  blending  of  passion 
and  coldness,  of  intoxication  and  mathematical  processes, 
this  keen  raillery  intermixed  with  lyric  effusions  of  the 
highest  poetry,  were  admirably  comprehended  by  Bau- 
delaire. He  was  seized  with  the  most  lively  sympathy 
for  this  haughty  and  eccentric  character,  which  so  much 
shocked  American  cant — a  disagreeable  variety  of  Eng- 
lish cant — and  frequent  communion  with  this  giddy 
intellect  exercised  a  great  influence  upon  him. 

Edgar  Poe  was  not  merely  a  recounter  of  extraordi- 
nary stories,  a  journalist  whom  no  one  surpassed  in 
the  art  of  launching  a  scientific  canard,  a  mystifier 
var  excellence  of  open-mouthed  credulity — he  was  also 
an  sesthetician  of  the  highest  power,  a  great  poet  of  a 
very  refined  and  very  complicated  sort.     His  poem  of 

8 


170  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

"  The  Raven,"  through  a  gradation  of  strophes,  and  the 
disquieting  persistence  of  the  refrain,  reaches  an  intense 
but  melancholy  effect,  a  terror  and  a  fatal  presentiment 
against  which  it  is  difficult  to  defend  one's  self.  It  is 
doing  no  wrong  to  the  originality  of  Baudelaire  to  say 
that  we  find  in  his  "  Flowers  of  Evil,"  a  sort  of  reflec- 
tion of  the  mysterious  manner  of  Edgar  Poe,  on  a  ground- 
work of  romantic  color. 

Some  years  ago,  as  it  is  not  our  habit  to  wait  until 
our  friends  are  dead  to  praise  them,  we  wrote  a  notice 
of  Baudelaire,  published  as  a  preface  to  some  extracts 
from  his  poems,  inserted  in  a  coll  ection  of  French  Poets, 
where  may  be  found  this  passage  upon  the  "  Fleurs  de 
Mai,"  the  author's  most  important  and  most  original 
work.  This  page  cannot  be  suspected  of  posthumous 
complaisance,  and  what  we  have  said  of  the  living  poet, 
we  can  report  of  the  dead  poet,  so  prematurely  and  so 
unhappily  taken  from  us : 

"We  read  in  the  tales  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  the 
description  of  a  singular  garden,  where  a  toxicologic 
botanist  has  reunited  the  flora  of  venomous  plants. 
These  plants,  of  strangely  disheveled  foliage,  of  a  black 
or  mineral  glaucous  green,  as  if  tinged  by  the  sulphate 
of  copper,  have  a  sinister  and  formidable  beauty.  We 
feel  them  dangerous,  despite  their  charm ;  they  have  in 
their  haughty,  provoking  or  perfidious  attitude,  the  con- 
sciousness of  an  immense  power,  or  of  an  irresistible 
seduction.  From  their  flowers,  savagely  variegated  and 
mottled,  of  a  purple  similar  to  congealed  blood,  or  of  a 
chlorotic  white,  they  exhale,  sharp,  penetrating,  intoxi- 
cating odors.  In  their  poisoned  chalices,  the  dew 
changes  into  aqua  toffana,  and  there  flit  around  them, 
only  cantharides  cuirassed  in  golden  green,  or  flies  of  a 
steel-blue,  whose  prick  causes  carbuncles  (le  charhon). 


CnARLES    BAUDELAIRE.  171 

The  milk-wort,  the  aconite,  the  henbane,  the  hemlock, 
mingle  their  cold  virus  with  the  glowing  poisons  of  the 
tropics  and  the  Indies.  The  mancliineel  here  displays  its 
small  apples,  deadly  as  those  which  hang  from  the  tree 
of  knowledge,  the  upas  here  distils  its  lacteous  juices, 
more  corrosive  than  aquafortis.  Above  this  garden 
floats  a  sickly  vapor,  which  benumbs  the  birds  when 
they  pass  through  it.  But  the  doctor's  daughter  lives 
unharmed  amid  these  mephitic  effluvias.  Her  lungs 
without  danger  breathe  this  air  where  any  other  than 
she  and  her  father  would  inhale  certain  death.  She 
makes  for  herself  bouquets  of  the  flowers,  she  adorns 
her  hair  with  them,  she  perfumes  her  breast  with  them, 
she  nibbles  at  their  petals  as  young  girls  nibble  at 
roses.  Slowly  saturated  with  the  venomous  juices,  she 
has  herself  become  a  living  poison  which  neutralizes  all 
other  poisons.  Her  beauty,  like  that  of  the  plants  of 
her  garden,  has  something  disquieting,  fatal  and  morbid. 
Her  hair,  of  a  bluish-black,  contrasts  in  a  sinister  way, 
with  her  complexion,  of  a  dull,  greenish  pallor,  from 
whence  her  mouth  gleams  forth,  empurpled,  one  might 
say,  by  some  bloody  berry.  An  insane  smile  reveals 
teeth  enshrined  in  a  sombre  red,  and  her  fixed  eyes  fasci- 
nate like  those  of  serpents.  You  would  say  she  was 
one  of  those  Javanaise,  those  love-vampyres,  those 
nocturnal  demons,  whose  passion  in  a  fortnight  exhausts 
the  blood,  the  marrow  and  the  soul  of  a  European. 
And  yet,  she  is  a  virgin,  this  doctor's  daughter,  and 
languishes  in  solitude.  Love  tries  in  vain  to  become 
acclimated  in  this  atmosphere,  out  of  which  she  cannot 
live. 

"We  have  never  read  the  '  Fleurs  de  Mai '  of  Charles 
Baudelaire  without  thinking  involuntarily,  of  this  story 
of  Hawthorne's ;  they  have  these  sombre  and  metallic 


172  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

colors,  these  greenish-gray  leaves,  and  these  death 
bringing  odors.  His  muse  resembles  the  doctor's  daugh^ 
ter,  whom  no  poison  can  affect,  but  whose  complexion 
in  its  bloodless  pallor  betrays  the  surroundings  amid 
which  she  dwells." 

This  comparison  pleased  Baudelaire,  and  he  loved  to 
recognize  in  it  the  personification  of  his  talent.  He 
glorified  himself  also  with  this  phrase  of  a  great  poet ; 
"  You  invest  the  heaven  of  art,  with  we  know  not  what 
deadly  rays ;  you  create  a  new  shudder." 

But  it  would  be  committing  a  grave  error  to  believe 
that  amid  these  mandragores,  these  poppies,  these  poison- 
ous blossoms,  we  may  not  meet  here  and  there,  a  fresh 
rose  of  innoxious  perfume,  a  large  Indian  flower  opening 
its  white  chalice  to  the  pure  dew  of  heaven.  When 
Baudelaire  depicts  the  deformities  of  humanity  and  of 
civilization,  it  is  only  with  a  secret  horror.  He  has  no 
complaisance  for  them,  he  regards  them  as  infractions  of 
the  universal  rhythm.  When  he  has  been  represented  as 
immoral^  a  great  word  they  know  how  to  use  in  France 
as  in  America,  he  has  been  as  astonished  as  if  he  heard 
them  praise  the  virtue  of  the  jasmine,  and  stigmatize  the 
wickedness  of  the  acrid  ranunculus. 

Beside  the  "  Extraordinary  Histories  "  of  Edgar  Poe, 
Baudelaire  has  translated  from  the  same  author,  the 
"Adventures  of  Allen  Gordon  Pym,"  which  end  with 
that  horrible  ingulfment  in  the  vortex  of  the  South 
Pole.  He  has  also  rendered  into  French,  a  cosmogonic 
dream  entitled,  "  Eureka,"  where  the  American  author, 
planting  himself  upon  the  celestial  mechanism  of  La 
Place,  seeks  to  divine  the  secret  of  the  universe,  and 
believes  he  has  found  it.  The  difficulties  encountered 
in  the  translation  of  such  a  work,  may  well  be  imagined. 
Under  the  title  of  "  The  Ai-tificial  Paradise,"  Baude- 


CHARLES  BAUDELAERE.  173 

laire  has  given  us  the  substance  of  this  work,  blending 
with  his  own  reflections,  those  of  DeQuincy  the  Eng- 
lish opium  eater ;  and  of  the  whole  he  has  made  a  sort  of 
treatise,  which  in  many  places,  must  run  counter  to 
Balzac's  famous  theory  of  stimulants.  It  is  most  curious 
reading,  illuminated  by  the  phantasmagoria  of  opium, 
and  a  portraiture  of  the  most  brilliant,  whimsical  and 
terrible  hallucinations,  produced  by  this  seducing  poison, 
which,  with  its  factitious  happiness,  stupefies  China 
and  the  Orient.  The  author  blames  the  man  who  seeks 
to  withdraw  himself  from  the  fatality  of  sorrow,  and 
lifts  himself  to  an  artificial  paradise  only  to  soon  fall 
back  into  a  deeper  hell. 

Baudelaire  was  an  art-critic  of  perfect  sagacity,  and 
to  the  appreciation  of  painting  he  brought  a  metaphysi- 
cal subtlety  and  an  originality  of  perspective,  which 
makes  us  regret  that  he  had  not  devoted  more  time  to 
this  sort  of  work.  The  pages  he  has  written  upon 
Delacroix  are  among  his  most  remarkable  ones. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  life,  he  composed  some  short 
prose  poems,  but  in  rhythmed  prose,  wrought  and  polish- 
ed like  the  most  condensed  poetry;  they  are  strange 
fantasies,  landscapes  of  the  other  world,  unknown 
figures,  which  it  seems  to  you  he  has  seen  elsewhere, 
spectral  realities,  and  phantoms  having  a  terrible 
reality.  These  pieces  have  appeared  at  hap-hazard, 
here  and  there,  in  divers  reviews,  and  they  should  be 
reunited  in  a  volume,  adding  to  them  others  which  the 
author  must  have  preserved  in  his  portfolio. 


IIONORE   DE   BALZAC. 

BOEN    1799 DIED    1850. 


The  first  time  I  saw  Balzac,  he  was  tliirty-six,  a  year 
older  than  the  century,  and  his  face  was  one  of  those 
which  can  never  be  forgotten.  In  his  presence  you 
thought  of  Shakespeare's  lines  upon  Julius  Caesar. 

"  Nature  might  stand  up 
Alid  say  to  all  the  world,    *  This  is  a  man  /'  " 

My  heart  beat  violently,  for  never  have  I  approached 
without  trembling,  a  master  of  thought ;  but  all  the  fine 
speeches  I  had  prepared  on  the  way,  cleaved  to  my 
throat,  allowing  utterance  only  to  some  stupid  phrase 
about  the  weather.  Balzac,  seeing  my  embarrassment, 
soon  set  me  at  my  ease,  and  ere  long  my  presence  of 
mind  returned,  allowing  me  to  scan  him  minutely. 

He  wore  in  the  form  of  a  dressing-gown,  that  frock 
of  white  cashmere  or  flannel  confined  at  the  waist  by  a 
cord,  in  which  he  was  soon  after  painted  by  Louis  Bou- 
langer.  It  is  not  known  why  he  chose  this  costume 
which  he  never  laid  aside  ;  perhaps  in  his  eyes,  it  sym- 
bolized the  clauistral  life  to  which  his  literary  labors 
condemned  him.    A  Benedictine  of  romance,  had  he  not 


HONOEE    DE    BALZAC.  175 

assumed  the  robe  of  his  order  ?  The  frock  always  remain- 
ed marvellously  white.  He  boasted  of  this  to  us,  show- 
ing us  the  sleeves,  perfectly  intact,  and  of  a  purity  which 
had  never  been  sullied  by  the  least  stain  of  ink.  "  The 
author  should  be  neat  when  at  his  work,"  said  he. 

This  frock,  somewhat  thrown  back,  revealed  the 
athletic  neck,  round  as  the  base  of  a  column,  without 
apparent  muscles,  and  of  a  satiny  whiteness  which  con- 
trasted with  the  deeper  hue  of  his  face.  At  this  time  Bal- 
zac, in  the  flower  of  his  age,  gave  evidence  of  a  robust 
health,  little  in  harmony  with  the  romantic  pallor  and 
delicacy  then  in  fashion.  The  pure  Tourangean  blood 
coursed  rapidly  through  his  full  veins,  and  sent  a  warm 
color  to  his  lips,  thick,  sinuous  and  easy  to  smile  ;  a 
light  mustache  and  imperial  accentuated  the  contours 
of  his  mouth,  without  concealing  them.  The  nose, 
square  at  the  end,  parted  mto  two  lobes,  pierced  by 
very  open  nostrils  of  a  character  entirely  original  and 
peculiar.  Balzac  in  posing  for  his  bust,  said  to  the 
sculptor,  David  d' Angers,  "  Be  careful  about  my  nose  ; 
my  nose  is  a  world." 

The  forehead  was  immense,  noble,  very  much  whiter 
than  the  face,  and  with  no  wrinkle  save  a  perpendicu- 
lar furrow  at  the  root  of  the  nose.  The  organ  of  local- 
itj'  formed  a  very  pronounced  ridge  above  the  arched 
brows ;  the  hair,  abundant,  long,  coarse  and  black, 
stood  up  behind  like  a  lion's  mane.  As  for  the  eyes, 
none  other  such  ever  existed.  They  had  a  life,  a  light, 
an  inconceivable  magnetism.  Despite  his  long  nightly 
vigils,  their  sclerotic  coat  pure,  limpid,  blueish,  like 
that  of  a  child  or  a  virgin,  enshrined  two  black  dia- 
monds, which  at  moments  were  illuminated  by  rich,  gold- 
en reflections.  They  were  eyes  to  make  the  eagles'  pupils 
fall,  to  penetrate  walls  and  hearts — the  eyes  of  the  sov- 
ereign, the  seer,  the  conqueror. 


176  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

Mme.  Emile  cle  Girardin  in  her  romance  entitled  "  M. 
de  Balzac's  Cane, "  thus  speaks  of  his  sparkling  eyes : 
"  Tancred  then  perceived  on  the  front  of  this  sort  of 
club,  turquoises,  gold,  marvellous  chasings;  and  be- 
hind them  all,  two  large  black  eyes,  more  brilliant  than 
the  stones." 

The  habitual  expression  of  the  face  was  a  sort  of  en- 
ergetic hilarity,  a  Rabelaisian  and  monkish  jocoseness — 
the  frock  no  doubt  aided  in  producing  this  idea — but  it 
was  aggrandized  and  elevated  by  a  mind  of  the  first  order. 

At  this  time,  Balzac's  great  work,  the  "  Com^die  Hu- 
maine"  had  not  appeared,  but  he  had  written  "  Louis 
Lambert,"  "  Seraphita,"  "  Eugene  Grandat,"  "  The 
History  of  the  Thirteen,"  "  The  Country  Physician, " 
and  other  works,  enough,  to  found,  in  ordinar}^  times, 
five  or  six  reputations.  His  ascending  glory,  every  day 
enhanced  by  new  rays,  beamed  forth  in  ever-increasing 
splendor,  and  that  must  indeed  be  a  bright  luminary, 
which  could  shine  in  a  sky  where  now  glowed  in  their 
full  lustre,  Lamartine,  Victor  Hugo,  Alfred  de  Musset, 
Sainte-Beuve,  Alexandre  Dumas,  Prosper  Merimee, 
George  Sand,  and  so  many  other  lesser  lights. 

He  lived  in  a  narrow,  little  frequented  street,  near 
the  Observatory,  which  had  been  christened  the  Cassini. 
Upon  the  garden  wall,  usurping  nearly  one  side  of  the 
street,  and  at  the  end  of  which  was  the  pavilion  occu- 
pied by  Balzac,  you  read  '■L'Absolu ;  Brick-Merchant.* 
This  odd  sign  which,  if  we  mistake  not^  exists  to-day, 
may  have  given  name  to  Balzac's  story,  "  The  Search 
for  the  Absolute."  It  probably  suggested  to  him  the 
idea  of  Balthasar  in  pursuit  of  his  impossible  dream. 

We  had  come  to  breakfast  with  him,  myself  and  a 
few  others.  According  to  his  habit,  Balzac  had  risen 
at  midnight,  and  had  written  until  the  time  of  our  arriv- 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  177 

al.  But  his  features  betrayed  no  fatigue  aside  from  a 
slight  discoloration  beneath  the  eyelids,  and  during  the 
whole  breakfast  he  was  wildly  gay.  Gradually  the 
conversation  drifted  toward  literature,  and  he  complain- 
ed of  the  enormous  difficulties  of  the  French  language. 
Style  very  much  preoccupied  him,  and  he  sincerely  be- 
lieved that  he  had  none  at  all.  It  is  true  that  he  was 
then  generally  denied  this  quality.  The  school  of 
Victor  Hugo,  in  love  with  the  sixteenth  century  and 
the  middle  age,  learned  in  rhymes,  in  rhythms,  in  struc- 
ture, in  periods  ;  rich  in  words,  crushing  prose  with 
the  gymnastics  of  verse,  and  working  through  a  master 
for  certain  results,  set  value  only  on  Avhat  was  well 
written,  that  is  to  say  labored  and  wrought  up  to  meet 
the  demands  of  a  most  artificial  taste.  This  school  re- 
garded the  portrayal  of  modern  manners  as  useless, 
vulgar,  and  wanting  in  lyric  art. 

Balzac,  notwithstanding  the  great  popularity  he  had 
begun  to  attain,  was  not  admitted  among  the  gods  of 
romance,  and  he  knew  it.  While  devouring  his  books, 
people  did  not  pause  to  regard  their  serious  side,  and 
for  a  long  time  he  remained —  "  the  most  fruitful  of 
romancers" — and  nothing  more.  This  surprises  the 
reading  world  of  to-day,  but  we  can  vouch  for  the  truth 
of  our  assertion.  And  so  he  did  himself  great  wrong 
in  trying  to  achieve  a  style,  and  in  his  anxious  correc- 
tions, he  consulted  people  who  were  a  hundred  times 
his  inferiors.  Before  signing  any  production  with  his 
own  name,  under  various  pseudonyms,  he  wrote  a 
hundred  volumes  just  "  to  get  his  hand  in."  And  yet 
he  already  possessed  a  style  of  his  own,  without  being 
conscious  of  it. 

Let' us  return  to  our  breakfast.  While  talking,  Bal- 
zac played  with  his  knife   and  fork,  and  we   remarked 

8* 


178  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

his  hands,  which  were  of  rare  beauty,  the  true  hands  of 
a  prelate,  white,  with  plump,  slender  fingers,  pink  and 
brilliant  nails.  He  was  very  proud  of  them,  and  smiled 
as  we  regarded  them.  Such  hands  he  considered  evi- 
dence of  "aristocratic  birth.  Lord  Byron,  in  a  note,  says 
with  evident  satisfaction,  that  Ali  Pacha  complimented 
him  upon  the  smallness  of  his  ears,  and  inferred  from 
this  that  he  was  a  true  gentleman.  A  similar  remark 
upon  his  hands  would  have  equally  flattered  Balzac,  even 
more  than  the  praise  of  one  his  books.  He  had  a  sort 
of  prejudice  against  those  whose  hands  and  feet  were 
wanting  in  delicacy.  The  repast  was  dainty  enough  ;  a 
pdte  defoie  gras  figured  in  it;  but  this  was  a  deviation 
from  Balzac's  habitual  frugality.  He  told  us  so  laugh- 
ing, and  that  for  this  "  solemnity,"  he  had  borrowed  his 
publisher's  silver  plate ! 

Before  going  farther,  let  us  pause  for  a  brief  space, 
and  give  some  details  of  Balzac's  life  anterior  to  our 
acquaintance  with  him.  Our  authorities  will  be  Madame 
de  Surville  his  sister,  and  himself. 

Balzac  was  born  in  Tours,  May  16,  1799,  on  the  natal 
day  of  Saint  Honore.  They  gave  him  the  Saint's  name, 
which  sounded  well,  and  seemed  to  be  of  good  augury. 
Little  Honore  was  not  a  precocious  child ;  he  did 
not  prematurely  announce  that  he  should  write  the 
"  Comedie  Humaine."  He  was  a  fresh,  rosy  boy ;  fond 
of  play,  with  mild,  sparkling  eyes,  but  in  no  way  distin- 
guished from  other  boys  of  his  age.  At  seven,  he  was 
transferred  from  a  school  at  Tours  where  he  had  been  a 
day-pupil,  to  the  College  of  Vendome,  where  he  passed 
for  a  lad  of  very  mediocre  ability. 

The  first  part  of  "Louis  Lambert,"  contains  curious 
information  as  to  this  period  of  Balzac's  life.  Dividing 
his   own  personality,   he   describes   himself  as   an  old 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  179 

schoolfellow  of  Louis  Lambert's,  now  speaking  in  his 
name,  and  now  lending  his  own  sentiments  to  this  per- 
sonage, imaginary,  and  yet  very  real,  since  he  is  a  sort 
of  object-glass  of  the  writer's  very  soul.  We  quote 
his  own  words. 

"Situated  in  the  middle  of  the  town,  upon  the  little 
liver  Loire,  which  bathes  its  walls,  the  college  forms  a 
vast  enclosure  containing  the  establishments  necessary 
to  an  institution  of  this  kind :  a  chapel,  a  theatre,  a 
hospital,  a  bakery  and  water-works.  This  college  is  the 
most  noted  seat  of  instruction  the  central  provinces  pos- 
sess. Distance  does  not  allow  parents  to  colne  here 
often  to  see  their  children,  and  the  rules  forbid  vaca- 
tions passed  away  from  the  institution.  Once  entered, 
the  pupils  do  not  leave  until  the  end  of  their  studies. 
With  the  exception  of  outside  walks  under  the  conduct 
of  the  fathers,  this  house  possesses  all  the  advantages  of 
conventual  discipline.  In  my  time  the  corrector  was  a 
living  remembrance,  and  the  ferule  played,  with  honor, 
its  terrible  role." 

Balzac  suffered  prodigously  in  this  college,  where  his 
dreamy  nature  was  every  instant  subjected  to  martyr- 
dom from  some  inflexible  rule.  He  neglected  his  tasks, 
but  favored  by  the  tacit  complicity  of  a  tutor  of  mathe- 
matics, who  was  at  the  same  time  librarian,  and  oc- 
cupied in  some  transcendental  work,  he  did  not  recite 
his  lessons,  but  took  away  all  the  books  he  wished.  He 
passed  his  whole  time  in  secret  reading,  and  he  soon 
became  the  scholar  of  his  class  most  often  punished. 
Tasks  and  retentions  soon  absorbed  his  hours  of  recrea- 
tion. In  certain  school] )oy  natures,  chastisements  in- 
spire a  sort  of  stoic  rebellion,  and  they  meet  the  exas- 
perated professors  with  the  same  disdainful  impassibility 
which  captive  savage  warriors  oppose  to  the  enemy  who 


180  LIFE    POETRAITS. 

tortures  them.  Neither  the  dungeon,  starvation  not 
the  ferule,  avail  to  wring"  from  them  the  least  lament ; 
then  ensue  between  the  master  and  the  pupil  terrible 
conflicts,  unknown  to  the  parents,  where  the  arts  of  the 
tormentor  are  met  by  the  constancy  of  martyrs.  Some 
nervous  professors  cannot  bear  the  glance  of  hatred, 
scorn  and  menace  with  which  a  brat  of  eight  or  ten 
years  defies  them. 

Accustomed  to  the  open  air,  to  the  independence  oi 
an  education  left  to  chance,  habituated  to  the  caresses 
of  an  old  man  who  loved  him  dearly,  and  to  thinking  in 
the  sunlight,  it  was  very  hard  for  Lambert  to  conform 
to  the  college  rules,  to  march  in  the  ranks,  to  live  with  - 
in  the  four  walls  of  a  hall  where  twenty-four  young 
lads  sat  silent  upon  wooden  benches,  each  before  his 
desk.  His  senses  possessed  a  perfection  which  gave 
them  an  exquisite  delicacy,  and  they  all  suffered  from 
this  life  in  common. 

This  entire  change  of  habits  and  discipline  saddened 
the  young  lad.  His  head  resting  in  liis  left  hand,  his 
elbows  leaning  on  his  desk,  he  passed  the  hours  of  study 
in  gazing  at  the  foliage  of  the  trees  in  the  yard,  or  at 
the  clouds  flitting  across  that  narrow  bit  of  sky.  He 
seemed  to  be  studying  his  lessons,  but  seeing  his  pen 
immovably  fixed  on  the  blank  page,  the  professor  would 
angrily  cry  out  to  him  that  he  was  doing  nothing. 

To  this  vivid  and  truthful  description  of  the  miseries 
of  life  at  a  bo3'^'s  school,  let  us  add  an  extract — where 
Balzac  in  his  duality,  giving  himself  the  double  soubri- 
quet of  Pythagoras  and  Poet,  the  one  borne  by  the  half 
of  himself  personified  in  Louis  Lambert,  the  other,  by 
the  half  confessing  his  own  identity, — explains  admir- 
ably the  reason  why  he  passed  among  the  professors  foi 
an  incapable  child. 


HOXORE     DE    BALZAC.  181 

"  Our  independence,  our  illicit  occupations,  our  ap- 
2)arent  indolence,  the  torpor  in  which  we  remained,  our 
constant  punishments,  our  repugnance  to  tasks  and 
duties,  won  us  the  reputation  of  being  lazy,  stupid  and 
incorrigible  lads  ;  our  masters  despised  us,  and  we  fell 
into  the  most  frightful  disgrace  among  our  comrades, 
from  whom  we  concealed  our  contraband  studies  for 
fear  of  their  mockeries.  This  double  depreciation,  un- 
just on  the  part  of  the  fathers,  was  but  a  natural  senti- 
ment in  our  schoolfellows;  we  did  not  know  how  to 
play  ball,  nor  to  run,  nor  to  mount  stilts  on  these  days 
of  amnesty,  when  by  chance  we  obtained  a  moment's 
freedom.  We  took  part  in  none  of  the  amusements  in 
vogue  at  the  college ;  strangers  to  the  enjoyments  of 
our  comrades,  we  remained  alone  and  melancholy,  seated 
under  some  tree  of  the  court.  The  Poet  and  Pytha- 
goras were  an  exception ;  they  led  a  life  outside  the 
common  life.  The  penetrating  instinct,  the  sensitive 
self-love  of  school-boys,  gives  them  a  presentiment  in 
regard  to  minds  placed  higher  or  lower  than  their  own ; 
hence,  on  the  one  side,  was  hatred  of  our  mute  aristoc- 
racy, on  the  other,  scorn  of  our  incapacity.  These  senti- 
ments were  in  us  to  our  cost;  perhaps,  I  have  divined 
them  only  to-day.  We  lived  then  exactly  like  two  rats, 
skulking  in  the  corner  of  the  hall  behind  our  desks ; 
bound  there  equally  during  the  hours  of  study  and  the 
hours  of  recreation." 

The  result  of  these  hidden  labors,  of  these  medita- 
tions which  absorbed  the  time  of  study,  was  that  famous 
Traits  de  la  Volonte  which  is  many  times  mentioned  in 
"  The  Human  Comedy."  Balzac  always  regretted  the 
loss  of  this  work  of  which  he  gives  a  summary  sketch  in 
"Louis  Lambert,"  and  he  relates  with  .m  emotion  time 
has  not  diminished,  the  confiscation  of  the  box  which 


182  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

held  the  precious  manuscript.  Some  jealous  school 
fellows  tried  to  snatch  the  precious  casket  from  the  two 
who  were  valiantly  defending  it,  when  suddenly  at- 
tracted by  the  tumult  of  the  battle,  Pdre  Ilaugoult 
roughl}'^  intervened,  and  quieted  the  dispute.  "This 
terrible  Haugoult  ordered  us  to  give  the  box  tc  him ; 
Lambert  handed  him  the  key,  the  tutor  took  the  papers 
and  glanced  over  them ;  then  he  said  while  confiscating 
them : — "  See  here,  in  such  foolishness  as  this  you  neg- 
lect your  lessons !  "  Great  tears  fell  from  Lambert's 
eyes,  caused  as  much  by  a  consciousness  of  his  outraged 
moral  superiority,  as  by  the  gratuitous  insult  and  the 
treachery  which  overwhelmed  him.  Pere  Haugoult 
probably  sold  to  a  grocer  of  Vendome  this  Traite  de 
la  VolontS  "  without  knowing  the  importance  of  the 
scientific  treasures,  whose  germs  were  thus  destroyed  by 
ignorant  hands." 

If  we  open  the  "  Peau  de  Chagrin,''''  we  find  there  in 
Raphael's  confession  the  following  sentences : 

"  You  alone  can  admire  my  '•  Theory  of  the  "Will," 
that  long  work,  for  whose  sake  I  learned  the  Oriental 
languages,  anatomy,  and  physiology ;  to  which  I  had  con- 
secrated the  greatest  portion  of  my  time ;  a  work  which, 
if  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  would  have  completed  the 
labors  of  Mesmer,  of  Lavater,  of  Gall,  of  Bichat,  liy 
opening  a  new  route  to  human  science.  There  stopjied 
ray  beautiful  life,  this  sacrifice  of  all  my  days,  this  toil 
of  the  silk-worm,  unknown  to  the  world,  and  whose  sole 
recompense  is  perhaps  in  the  labor  itself.  From  the 
age  of  reason  to  the  day  when  I  ended  my  Theorie,  I 
have  observed,  I  have  learned,  I  have  written,  I  have 
read  incessantly,  and  my  life  has  been  one  long  task. 
An  effeminate  lover  of  oriental  idleness,  amorous  of  my 
dreams,  sensuous,  I  have  always  worked,  denying  my- 


HONORE    DE     BALZAC.  183 

self  tlie  delights  of  Parisian  life ;  a  gourmand,  I  have  been 
temperate  ;  fond  of  travel  and  voyages,  desiring  to  visit 
foreign  countries,  finding  still  some  pleasure  in  making 
ricochets  in  the  water  after  the  manner  of  children,  I 
have  remained  constantly  seated  with  a  pen  in  my 
hand ;  a  babbler,  I  have  gone  to  listen  in  silence  to  the 
professors  at  the  public  lecture-courses  of  the  Library 
and  the  Museum  ;  I  have  slept  upon  my  solitary  truckle- 
bed  like  a  monk  of  the  order  of  Saint-Benedict;  and  yet 
woman  has  been  my  sole  chimera ; — a  chimera  I  would 
have  caressed,  and  which  always  fled  from  me  !  " 

If  Balzac  regretted  the  loss  of  his  "  Treatise  on  the 
Will,"  he  must  have  been  far  less  sensible  to  that  of  his 
epic  poem  upon  the  Incas,  which  opens  thus : 

0  Inca^  6  roi  infortune  et  malheureux !  an  unlucky 
inspiration,  which  for  all  the  time  he  remained  in  college, 
won  him  the  derisive  soubriquet  of  "  The  Poet.'^  Balzac, 
it  must  be  confessed,  had  a  gift  for  poetry,  for  versifica- 
tion, at  least ;  his  thought,  so  complex,  always  remained 
rebellious  against  rhyme. 

From  these  intense  meditations,  from  these  intellectual 
labors,  truly  prodigious  for  a  child  of  twelve  or  fourteen 
years,  there  resulted  a  strange  malady,  a  nervous  fever, 
a  sort  of  coma  entirely  inexplicable  to  the  professors, 
who  were  not  in  the  secret  of  the  readings  and  the  pur- 
suits of  young  Honore,  apparently  so  idle  and  stupid. 
No  one  at  the  school  suspected  this  precocious  excess 
of  intelligence,  no  one  knew  that  in  the  "dungeon" 
v/here  he  caused  himself  to  be  put  daily  so  as  to  be  at 
liberty,  this  pupil,  supposed  to  be  idle,  had  devoured  a 
whole  library  of  serious  books,  above  the  usual  compre- 
hension of  lads  of  his  age. 

Let  us  cite  here  some  curious  traits  connected  with 
the  faculty  for  reading  attributed  to  Louis  Lambej.'t, 
that  is  to  Balzac. 


184  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

"  In  three  years,  Louis  had  assimilated  the  substance 
of  the  books  in  his  uncle's  library  which  deserved  to  be 
read.  The  absorption  of  ideas  by  reading,  had  with  him 
become  a  curious  phenomenon,  his  eye  took  in  seven  or 
eight  lines  at  a  glance,  and  his  mind  appreciated  the 
sense  of  them  with  a  quickness  equal  to  that  of  his 
glance.  Often  a  single  word  of  a  phrase  sufficed  to 
give  him  its  substance.  His  memory  was  prodigious. 
He  remembered  with  the  same  fidelity,  the  thoughts 
acquired  by  reading  and  those  which  reflection  or  con- 
versation had  suggested  to  him.  He  possessed  all 
memori-es ;  that  of  places,  of  names,  of  words,  of  things, 
of  figures ;  not  only  did  he  recall  objects  at  will,  but  he 
saw  them  again  in  himself,  transfigured  and  colored  as 
they  were  at  the  moment  when  he  perceived  them. 
This  power  applied  equally  to  the  most  inperceptible 
objects  of  the  understanding.  He  remembered  not  only 
the  bearin.g  of  the  thoughts  in  the  book  whence  he  had 
derived  them,  but  even  the  disposition  of  his  mind  at 
remote  epochs."' 

This  marvellous  gift  of  his  youth,  Balzac  retained 
all  his  life,  even  in  larger  measure  as  the  years  passed 
on ;  and  through  this  we  are  able  to  explain  his  immense 
labors — veritable  labors  of  Hercules. 

The  frightened  professors  wrote  to  Honore's  parents 
to  come  for  him  as  soon  as  possible.  His  mother  has- 
teni^d  to  him,  and  took  him  back  to  Tours.  The  aston- 
ishment of  the  family  was  great  when  they  saw  the  thin, 
pitiful  child  the  college  had  returned  to  them  in  pkace 
of  the  cherub  it  had  received.  Not  only  had  he  lost  his 
fine  color,  his  fresh  embonpoint,  but  under  the  shock  of 
a  congestion  of  ideas,  he  appeared  even  imbecile.  His 
manner  was  that  of  an  ecstatic,  of  a  somnambulist  who 
Bleeps  with  open  eyes ;  lost  in  profound  revery,  ho  did 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  185 

not  hear  what  was  said  to  him;  or,  his  mind  returning 
from  afar,  arrived  too  late  for  reply.  But  the  open  air 
rest,  the  tender  cares  of  his  family,  the  recreations  they 
forced  him  to  take,  and  the  vigorous  juices  of  youth  soon 
triumphed  over  this  diseased  state.  The  tumult  caused 
in  that  young  brain  by  the  confusion  of  ideas,  was  ere 
long  appeased. 

The  involved  readings  classified  themselves,  to  abstrac- 
tions succeeded  real  images.  While  walking  for  recrea- 
tion, he  studied  the  pretty  landscapes  of  the  Loire,  the 
provincial  types,  the  cathedral  of  Saint  Gatien,  and  the 
characteristic  physiognomy  of  priests  and  prebendaries. 
Many  cartoons  which  later  served  for  the  grand  frescoes 
of  the  "  Com^die,"  were  sketched  during  this  period  of 
fruitful  inaction.  Meantime,  the  intelligence  of  Balzac 
was  no  more  divined  or  comprehended  in  his  family  than 
it  had  been  in  college.  If  anything  clever  escaped  his 
lips,  his  mother,  a*  very  superior  woman  by  the  way, 
would  exclaim ;  '*  Honore,  do  you  understand  what 
you  are  saying?"  Balzac  pere,  who  believed  at  the 
same  time  with  Montaigne,  with  Rabelais  and  with 
uncle  Toby,  through  his  philosophy,  his  originality  and 
his  goodness,  had  a  better  opinion  of  his  son ;  fi-om 
certain  systems  of  genesis  peculiar  to  himself,  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  no  child  of  his  could  be  a  fool, 
and  yet  he  had  no  suspicion  of  the  great  man  Honore 
was  to  become. 

Balzac's  family  had  returned  to  Paris ;  he  was  placed 
at  the  boarding-school  of  M.  Lepitre  in  the  Rue  Saint 
Louis,  and  afterwards  with  Messieurs  Scanzer  and  Beu- 
zelin  in  the  Rue  Thoringy  at  Marais.  There  as  at  the 
College  of  Vendome,  his  genius  did  not  reveal  itself, 
and  he  remained  confounded  with  a  herd  of  ordinary 
pupils.  No  pious  enthusiast  had  said  to  him; — Tu  Mar- 
celluB  eris  !  or^  Sic  itur  ad  astra  ! 


186  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

His  school  education  ended,  Balzac  gave  himself 
that  second  education,  which  is  the  true  one ;  he  studied, 
he  perfected  himself,  he  attended  the  courses  of  the 
Sorbonne  and  read  law  with  an  attorney.  This  time, 
apparently  lost,  since  Balzac  became  neither  attorney 
nor  notary,  nor  advocate  nor  judge,  gave  him  a  personal 
acquaintance  with  the  lawyers'  clerks  of  Paris,  and  set 
him  to  writing  later,  in  the  fasliion  of  a  man  marvellous- 
ly versed  in  that  profession,  what  we  may  call  the  litiga- 
tions of  the  "  Comedie  Humaine." 

The  examinations  passed,  the  great  question  of  a 
career  presented  itself.  They  wished  to  make  a  notary 
of  Balzac ;  but  the  future  great  writer,  although  no  one 
believed  in  his  genius,  had  a  consciousness  of  it  himself. 
In  the  most  respectful  manner  he  decliued  such  a  career, 
although  they  would  have  given  him  a  commission  on  the 
most  favorable  terms.  His  father  granted  him  an  ordeal 
of  two  years,  and  when  the  family  returned  to  .the  prov- 
ince, Madame  Balzac  installed  Honor^  in  an  attic,  allow- 
ing him  a  pension  scarce  sufficient  for  his  most  prassing 
wants.  She  hoped  that  a  little  hardship  would  render 
him  more  wise. 

This  garret  was  perched  in  the  Rue  de  Lesdiguieres, 
No.  9,  near  the  Arsenal,  whose  library  offered  its  resour- 
ces to  the  young  student.  To  pass  from  an  abundant 
and  luxurious  house  to  a  miserable  attic  must  be  a  great 
hardship  for  any  other  age  than  twenty-one  years,  Bal- 
zac's age  at  that,  time  •  but,  if  the  dream  of  every  little 
boy  is  to  have  boots,  that  of  every  young  man  is  to 
have  a  chamber  all  to  himself,  whose  key  he  carries  in 
his  pocket,  although  he  can  stand  upright  only  in  its 
midst.  A  chamber  is  the  virile  robe  ;  it  is  independence; 
personality,  delight ! 

Behold  then  master  Honor^  perched  up  near  the  sky, 


HONORE    DE     BALZAC.  187 

seated  before  his  table,  and  essaying  a  chef-d' ceuvre^ 
which  must  surely  justify  the  indulgence  of  his  father, 
and  give  the  lie  to  the  unfavorable  horoscopes  of  hia 
friends.  It  is  a  singular  incident,  that  Balzac  made  his 
dehut  in  a  tragedy,  in  a  "  Cromwell !  "  About  this  time, 
Victor  Hugo  also  put  the  last  touches  to  his  "  Cromwell," 
whose  preface  wa|  the  manifesto  of  the  young  dramatic 
school. 


II. 

In  attentively  re-reading  the  "  Comedie  Humaine " 
when  one  has  familiarly  known  Balzac,  one  finds  there 
a  dense  throng  of  curious  details  in  regard  to  his  charac- 
ter and  his  life ;  especially  in  his  first  works,  where 
he  is  not  yet  entirely  disengaged  from  his  own  personal- 
ity, and  in  default  of  subjects  observes  and  dissects  him- 
self. We  have  said  that  he  began  his  rude  novitiate 
for  the  literary  life,  in  a  garret  near  the  Arsenal.  The 
novel  "  Facine  Cane,"  published  in  Paris,  March,  1836, 
and  dedicated  to  Louise,  contains  some  valuable  indica- 
tions of-  the  life  this  young  aspirant  for  glory  led  in  his 
aerial  nest. 

"  I  lived  then  in  a  street  which  doubtless  you  do  not 
know.  Rue  de  Lesdiguieres ;  it  begins  at  Rue  Saint- 
Antoine  opposite  a  fountain,  near  the  Place  de  la  Bas- 
tille, and  leads  into  the  Rue  de  la  CMsaie.  The  love 
of  science  had  thrown  me  into  an  attic,  where  I  wrote 
all  night,  and  passed  the  day  in  a  neighboring  library, 
that  of  Monsieur.  I  lived  frugally  ;  I  had  accepted  all 
the  conditions  of  the  monastic  life,  so  necessary  to  in- 
tellectual workers.  Even  when  the  weather  was  fine, 
I  scarce  allowed  myself  a  walk  upon  the  boulevard  Bour- 
don.    One  sole  passion  enticed  me  from  my  studious 


188  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

habits  ;  but  was  not  this  also  a  study  ?  I  went  to  observe 
the  manners  of  the  faubourg,  its  inhabitants  and  their 
characters.  Ill  clad  as  the  workmen,  indifferent  to 
decorum,  I  did  not  put  them  on  their  guard  against  me ; 
I  could  mingle  in  their  groups,  see  them  conclude  their 
bargains,  and  hear  them  dispute  about  the  hours  when 
they  quitted  work.  With  me,  observation  had  already 
become  intuitive ;  it  so  thoroughly  grasped  exterior 
details  as  to  go  immediately  beyond  them  ;  it  gave  me 
the  faculty  of  living  the  life  of  the  individual  in  whom 
I  was  interested,  by  permitting  me  to  substitute  myself 
for  him  as  the  Dervish  of  the  Thousand-and-One  Nights 
seized  the  souls  of  persons  over  whom  he  pronounced 
certain  words." 

*'  When,  between  eleven  o'clock  and  midnight,  I  met 
a  workman  and  his  wife  returning  together  from  the 
Ambigu  Comique,  I  amused  myself  in  following  them 
from  the  boulevard  Pont  aux  Choux,  to  the  boulevard 
Beaumarchais.  These  worthy  people  would  at  first 
speak  of  the  piece  they  had  just  seen ;  from  this  they 
would  descend  to  their  family  affairs ;  the  mother  lead- 
ing her  child  by  the  hand  without  heeding  its  com- 
plaints or  questions.  The  married  pair  would  reckon  up 
the  money  that  was  to  be  paid  them  on  the  morrow. 
They  would  expend  it  in  twenty  different  ways.  Now, 
they  would  enter  into  household  details,  into  lamenta- 
tions over  the  excessive  price  of  potatoes,  or  the  length 
of  the  winter  and  the  rise  in  the  cost  of  coal ;  into  pithy 
representations  as  to  what  was  due  the  baker,  and  final- 
ly into  discussions  where  each  becoming  irritated,  dis- 
played his  or  her  character  in  picturesque  words.  In 
listening  to  these  people,  I  could  espouse  their  life,  I 
felt  their  rags  upon  my  back,  I  walked  in  their  dilapidat- 
ed shoes ;  their  desires,  their  needs,  all  passed  into  mj* 


HONOR^    DE    BALZAC.  189 

soul,  and  my  soul  passed  into  theirs ;  it  was  the  dream 
of  an  awakened  mari  With  them,  I  grew  exasperated 
at  the  foremen  of  the  shops  who  tyrannized  over  them, 
or  at  the  bad  practices  which  made  them  go  and  come 
many  times  without  getting  their  pay.  To  abandon  my 
own  habitudes,  to  become  another  than  myself  through 
this  transport  of  the  moral  faculties,  to  play  this  game 
at  will,  such  was  my  recreation.  To  what  do  I  owe 
this  gift  ?  To  a  second  sight  ?  Is  it  one  of  those  facul- 
ties whose  abuse  would  lead  to  madness  ?  I  have  never 
sought  the  sources  of  this  power ;  I  possess  it,  and  I 
avail  myself  of  it,  that  is  all." 

These  lines  are  doubly  interesting,  because  they  throw 
light  upon  a  side  of  Balzac's  life  as  yet  little  known, 
showing  that  he  was  conscious  of  that  faculty  of  intui- 
tion which  he  possessed  in  so  high  a  degree,  and  with- 
out which,  the  realization  of  his  work  would  have  been 
impossible.  Balzac,  like  Vishnu,  the  Indian  god,  had 
the  gift  of  avatar,  that  is  to  say,  of  incarnating  himself 
into  different  bodies,  and  of  living  in  them  as  long  as 
he  wished  ;  but  the  number  of  the  avatars  of  Vishnu  is 
fixed  at  ten,  those  of  Balzac  are  countless,  and  still 
more,  he  had  the  power  to  incite  them  at  will. 

Although  it  may  seem  singular  to  say  it  in  the  full 
light  of  this  nineteenth  century,  Balzac  was  a  seer.  His 
merits  as  an  observer,  his  acuteness  as  a  physiologist, 
his  genius  as  a  writer,  do  not  suffice  to  explain  the  in- 
finite variety  of  the  two  or  three  thousand  types  which 
play  a  role  in  the  "  Human  Comedy."  He  did  not  copy 
them,  he  lived  them  ideally,  he  wore  their  clothes,  h« 
contracted  their  habits,  he  environed  himself  with  their 
surroundings,  he  was,  for  the  time  being,  their  very 
selves.  Hence  come  these  well-sustained,  logical  per- 
sonages,  never   belying   themselves,   never    forgetting 


190  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

themselves,  endowed  with  an  interior  and  profound  ex- 
istence. 

This  faculty,  Balzac  possessed  only  for  the  present. 
He  could  transport  his  thought  into  a  marquis,  into  a 
financier,  into  bourgeois ;  into  a  man  of  the  people,  into 
a  woman  of  the  world,  into  a  courtezan,  but  the  shadows 
of  the  past  did  not  obey  his  call ;  he  never  Avould  have 
known, like  Goethe,  to  evoke  from  the  depths  of  antiquity, 
the  beautiful  Helen,  and  make  her  dwell  in  the  Gothic 
manor  of  Faust.  With  two  or  three  exceptions,  all  his 
work  is  modern ;  he  has  assimilated  the  living,  he  has 
not  resuscitated  the  dead.  History  even  has  seduced 
him  little,  as  one  can  see  from  the  preface  to  his  "  Com^* 
die  Humaine  :  "  In  reading  the  dry  and  repulsive  nomen- 
clature of  facts  called  history,  who  has  not  perceived  that 
writers  have  forgotten  at  all  epochs,  in  Egypt,  in  Per- 
sia, in  Greece,  in  Rome,  in  our  OAvn  time,  to  give  the 
history  of  manners?  That  bit  of  Petronius  upon  the 
private  life  of  the  Romans,  irritates,  rather  than  satisfies 
our  curiosity. 

This  void,  left  by  the  historians,  of  vanished  societies, 
Balzac  proposed  to  fill  for  ours,  and  God  knows  he  car- 
ried out  faithfully  the  programme  he  sketched.  "  Society 
was  going  to  be  the  Historian,"  writes  he,  "  and  I  was 
to  be  only  the  secretary;  in  drawing  up  an  inventory  of 
the  vices  and  the  virtues,  in  collecting  the  leading  facts 
of  the  passions,  in  depicting  characters,  in  choosing  the 
principal  social  events,  in  composing  types  through  a 
reunion  of  the  traits  of  several  homogeneous  characters, 
pei'haps  I  could  succeed  in  writing  the  history,  forgot- 
ten by  L>o  many  historians,  that  of  manners.  By  the  aid 
of  a  great  deal  of  patience  and  courage,  I  might  realize 
that  book  upon  the  France  of  the  nineteenth  century, 


HONORE    DE     BALZAC.  191 

which  we  all  regret  that  Rome,  Athens,  Tyre,  Memphis, 
Persia  and  India,  have  unfortmiately  not  left  us  upon 
their  civilization. 

But  let  us  return  to  the  garret  of  the  Rue  Lesdigui- 
^res.  Balzac  had  not  conceived  the  plan  of  the  work  that 
was  to  immortalize  him ;  he  was  still  seeking  it,  anx- 
iously, pantingly,  laboriously,  trying  everything  and  suc- 
ceeding in  nothing ;  but  he  already  possessed  that  per- 
tinacity in  work,  to  which  Minerva,  however  untract- 
able  she  may  be,  must  one  day  or  other  yield.  He 
sketched  comic  operas,  he  drew  up  plans  of  comedies, 
Dramas  and  romances,  whose  titles  Madame  de  Sierville 
has  preserved  for  us  ;  "  Stella,"  "  Coqsigrue,"  "  The 
Two  Philosophers,"  without  counting  that  terrible 
"  Cromwell,''  whose  verses  had  cost  him  so  much  and  yet 
were  not  worth  much  more  than  the  opening  line  of  his 
epic  poem  upon  the  Incas. 

Figure  to  yourself  our  young  Honore,  his  legs  wrapped 
in  a  ragged  coachman's  overcoat,  the  upper  part  of  his 
body  protected  by  an  old  shawl  of  his  mother's,  his  head- 
gear a  sort  of  Dantesque  cap,  whose  cut  Madame  de 
Balzac  alone  knew,  a  coffee-pot  at  his  right,  an  ink- 
stand at  his  left,  with  heaving  chest  and  bowed  forehead, 
laboring  like  an  ox  at  the  plough,  the  field  as  yet  stony 
and  uncleared  of  those  thoughts  which  were  later  to 
trace  for  him  such  productive  furrows.  His  lamp  burns 
like  a  star  in  the  depths  of  the  sombre  house,  the  snow 
descends  silently  upon  the  disjointed  tiles ;  the  wind 
sighs  through  the  door  and  window,  "  Like  Tulou  with 
his  Flute,  but  less  agreeably." 

If  some  belated  passer-by  had  raised  his  eyes  to  that 
little,  obstinately  flickering  gleam,  he  certainly  would 
not  have  suspected  that  it  was  the  dawning  of  one  of  the 
brightest  luminaries  of  our  age. 


192  LIFE  POKTRAITS. 

Would  you  like  to  see  a  sketch  of  the  place,  trans« 
posed,  it  is  true,  but  very  exact,  thrown  off  by  the  'au- 
thor of  the  "  Peau  de  Chagrin,^^  that  work  which  con- 
tains so  much  of  himself  ? 

"  A  chamber  which  looks  down  upon  the  yards  of  the 
neighboring  houses,  from  the  windows  of  which  extend 
long  poles  filled  with  linen ;  nothing  could  have  been 
more  horrible  than  that  garret  with  those  yellow,  grimy 
walls,  which  exhaled  misery  and  invited  its  scholar. 
The  roof  slanted  regularly,  and  the  disjointed  tiles  al- 
lowed glimpses  of  the  sky ;  there  was  room  for  a  bed,  a 
table,  some  chairs,  and  under  the  sharp  angle  of  the  eaves 
I  could  lodge  my  piano.  I  lived  for  almost  three  years 
in  this  aerial  sepulchre,  toiling  night  and  day,  without 
relaxation,  yet  Avith  so  much  pleasure  that  study  seemed 
to  me  the  most  beautiful  exercise,  the  happiest  solution 
of  human  life.  The  calm  and  the  silence  necessary  to 
the  scholar  have,  like  love,  a  sort  of  sweetness  and  intox- 
ication. Study  lends  a  sort  of  magic  to  one's  entire  sur- 
roundings. The  poor  desk  upon  which  I  wrote,  my  pi- 
ano, my  bed,  my  arm-chair,  the  grotesque  paper-hangings, 
my  furniture,  all  these  things  seemed  to  possess  life  and 
become  for  me  humble  friends,  the  silent  accomplices  of 
my  future.  How  many  times  have  I  not  communicated 
to  them  my  soul  in  gazing  upon  them  ?  Often  in  letting 
my  eyes  wander  to  a  warped  moulding,  I  would  encoun- 
ter new  developments,  a  striking  proof  of  my  system, 
or  words  I  believed  suited  to  render  almost  untranslate- 
able  thoughts." 

In  this  same  passage,  he  thus  alludes  to  his  labors ; 
"  I  had  undertaken  two  great  works  ;  a  comedy,  which 
in  a  short  time  was  to  give  me  renown,  fortune  and  en- 
trance into  that  society  where  I  wished  to  reappear  ex- 
ercising  the  royal  prerogatives  of  the   man  of  genius. 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC.  193 

You  have  all  seen  this  chef  d'ceuvre,  the  first  error  of  a 
young  man  just  out  of  college,  the  foolery  of  a  child  ' 
Your  banterings  destroyed  these  fruitful  illusions,  which 
since  then  have  not  again  awakened. 

We  recognize  here  the  unlucky  "  Cromwell,"  which 
read  to  his  family  and  assembled  friends,  made  a  com- 
plete fiasco. 

Honord  appealed  from  this  sentence  to  an  arbiter 
whom  he  considered  fully  competent,  an  old  man  for- 
merly professor  at  the  Polytechnic  School.  His  judg- 
ment was  that  our  author  had  better  engage  in  anything, 
no  matter  what,  except  literature. 

What  a  loss  for  letters,  what  a  void  in  the  human 
mind  would  have  ensued,  if  the  young  man  had  bowed 
to  the  experience  of  the  old  man  and  had  listened  to  his 
counsel,  which  certainly  was  the  wisest  possible ;  for 
there  was  not  the  least  spark  of  genius  nor  even  of  tal- 
ent in  this  rhetorical  tragedy  !  Happily,  Balzac,  under 
the  pseudonym  of  Louis  Lambert,  had  not  composed  for 
nothing,  while  at  the  college  of  VendOme,  his  last  trea- 
tise on  the  Will. 

He  submitted  to  the  sentence,  but  only  in  respect  to 
tragedy ;  he  understood  that  he  must  renounce  try- 
ing to  walk  in  the  footsteps  of  Corneille  and  Racine,  for 
never  were  geniuses  more  contrary  to  his.  Romance 
offered  him  a  more  fitting  model,  and  about  this  time  he 
wr<yte  a  great  number  of  volumes  which  he  did  not  sign, 
and  which  he  always  disavowed.  The  Balzac  whom  we 
know  and  whom  we  admire,  was  still  in  limbo  and 
struggling  valiantly  to  extricate  himself.  Those  who 
had  judged  him  capable  of  being  only  a  copyist,  were 
apparently  right,  but  perhaps  even  this  resource  would 
have  failed  him,  for  his  beautiful  handwriting  had  al- 
ready become  transformed  into  the  rough  draughts, 
9 


194  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

irregular,  full  of  erasures,  overloaded,  almost  hieroglyphi- 
cal,  of  the  writer  struggling  for  the  idea,  and  no  longer 
caring  for  the  beauty  of  the  character. 

And  so  nothing  had  resulted  from  this  rigorous  claus- 
tration,  this  hermit  life  in  the  Thebaid,  whose  budget 
"Raphael "  draws  up :  "  Three  sous  worth  of  bread,  two 
sous  worth  of  milk,  three  sous  worth  of  butcher's  meat, 
prevented  me  from  dying  of  hunger  and  kept  my  mind 
in  a  state  of  singular  lucidity.  My  lodgings  cost  me 
three  sous  a  day ;  I  burned  three  sous  worth  of  oil  every 
night,  I  took  care  of  my  own  room,  and  I  wore  flannel 
shirts  so  as  to  expend  but  two  sous  a  day  for  washing. 
I  warmed  myself  with  pitcoal,  whose  price  divided  by  the 
days  of  the  year,  never  gave  more  than  two  sous  for  each. 
I  had  suits  of  clothes,  linen,  and  shoes  for  three  years ; 
I  needed  to  dress  myself  in  my  best  only  to  attend 
certain  public  lecture  courses,  and  visit  the  libraries. 
These  expenses  all  united,  amounted  only  to  eighteen 
sous  a  day ;  there  remained  two  sous  for  unforeseen, 
things." 

Doubtless  "  Raphael "  a  little  exaggerated  his  economy, 
but  Balzac's  correspondence  with  his  sister  shows  that 
the  romance  does  not  differ  much  from  the  reality. 
"  The  news  from  my  household  is  disastrous,"  writes 
he.  "  Work  is  inimical  to  neatness.  That  rascal  myself 
neglects  himself  more  and  more  ;  he  descends  on'/  once 
in  three  or  four  days,  to  make  purchases,  and  then  ^oes 
to  the  merchants  nearest  and  most  badly  supplied  in  the 
ivhole  quarter.  The  fellow  economizes  his  steps,  at 
least ;  so  that  your  brother  (destined  to  so  much  cele- 
brity) is  even  now  nourished  like  a  great  man ;  that  is 
to  say,  he  is  absolutely  dying  of  hunger." 

ElscAviiere,  continuing  this  pleasantry,  he  reprimands 
the  idler,  Myself^  who  lets  spiders'  webs  hang  fi'om  the 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  195 

ceijing,  beetles  walk  under  the  bed,  and  the  blinding 
dust  sift  over  his  window-panes. 

In  another  letter,  he  writes,  •'!  have  eaten  two  melons. 
I  shall  have  to  pay  for  them  with  walnuts  and  dry- 
bread?" 

One  of  the  few  recreations  he  allowed  himself  was 
to  go  to  the  Jardin  or  to  P^re  La  Chaise.  At  the  sum- 
mit of  the  funereal  hill,  he  looked  down  upon  all  Paris. 
His  glance  sailed  over  this  ocean  of  slate  and  tiles,  which 
covers  so  much  luxury,  misery,  intrigue  and  passion. 
Like  a  young  eagle,  he  took  in  his  prey  at  a  glance,  but 
he  had  as  yet,  neither  wings  nor  beak  nor  talons,  al- 
though his  eye  could  already  fix  itself  upon  the  sun. 
He  said,  contemplating  the  tombs  :  "  There  are  no  more 
beautiful  epitaphs  than  these  ;  La  Fontaine — Massena — 
Moliere — one  single  name  which  tells  all,  and  which 
makes  us  dream  !  " 

This  phrase  contains  as  it  were,  a  vague  prophetic 
perception  which  the  future  realized,  alas !  too  soon. 
On  the  slope  of  the  hill,  upon  a  sepulchral  stone,  beneath 
a  bust  cast  in  bronze,  after  the  marble  of  David,  this  one 
word  "  BALZAC  "  tells  all,  and  makes  the  solitary 
promenader  dream. 

The  dietetic  regimen  extolled  by  "  Raphael "  must 
have  been  favorable  to  lucidity  of  brain,  but  it  was  very 
bad  for  a  young  man  habituated  to  the  comfort  of  the 
family  life.  Fifteen  months  passed  under  these  intel- 
lectual plummets,  sadder,  heavier,  than  those  of  Venice, 
had  made  our  young  Tourangeau  with  the  smooth, 
glowing  cheeks,  a  Parisian  skeleton,  wan  and  sallow,  al- 
most unrecognizable.  Balzac  then  reentered  the  paternal 
mansion,  where  the  fatted  calf  was  killed  for  the  return 
of  the  child  so  little  prodigal. 

We  glide  lightly  over  the  period  of  his  life  when  he 


196  LIFE  PORT  RAITS . 

tried  to  assure  independence  by  speculations  in  the  boob 
trade,  which  want  of  capital  alone  prevented  being 
fortunate.  These  ventures  involved  him  in  debt,  mort- 
gaged his  future,  and  despite  the  aid  proffered  iiim  by 
his  family,  but  perhaps  too  late,  they  imposed  upon  him 
the  rock  of  Sisyphus,  which  he  so  many  times  raised 
just  to  the  edge  of  the  hill,  and  which  always  fell  back 
with  more  crushing  weight  upon  the  shoulders  of  this 
Atlas,  burdened  besides  with  a  whole  Avorld. 

This  debt,  which  he  made  it  a  sacred  duty  to  discharge 
because  it  represented  the  fortune  of  other  beings  dear 
to  him,  was  the  Necessity,  her  rod  armed  with  sharp 
points,  her  hand  full  of  brazen  nails,  who  harassed  him 
night  and  day,  without  truce  or  pity,  making  him  regard 
every  hour  of  repose  or  recreation  as  a  theft.  She  ruled 
dolorously  all  his  life,  often  rendering  it  inexplicable  to 
those  who  did  not  possess  its  secret. 

Having  indicated  these  indispensable  biographic  de- 
tails, we  come  to  our  personal  and  direct  impressions  of 
Balzac. 

Balzac,  that  immense  brain,  that  physiologist  so 
penetrating,  that  observer  so  profound,  that  mind  so 
intuitive,  did  not  possess  the  literary  gift ;  within,  there 
yawned  an  abyss  between  the  thought  and  the  form. 
That  abyss,  especial!}^  in  his  early  attempts  at  authorship, 
he  despaired  of  passing.  He  threw  here  without  filling 
it,  volume  upon  volume,  lucubration  upon  lucubration, 
essay  upon  essay :  a  whole  library  of  unacknowledged 
books  vanished  here.  A  will  less  sturdy  would  have 
despaired  a  thousand  times ;  but  happily,  Balzac  had  an 
imperturbable  confidence  in  his  genius,  unacknowledged 
by  all  the  world. 

Unlike  other  writers  of  the  romantic  school,  who 
distinguish  themselves  by  a  boldness  and  astonishing 


HOJfORE    DE    BALZAC.  197 

facility  of  execution,  and  produce  their  fruits  at  almost 
tlie  same  time  as  their  flowers,  Balzac,  the  equal  in  genius 
of  them  all,  found  his  means  of  expression  only  after 
infinite  difficulties.  Victor  Hugo  in  one  of  Ms  prefaces, 
says  with  his  Castilian  pride  :  "  I  know  not  4he  art  of 
soldering  a  beauty  in  the  place  of  a  defect,  and  I  correct 
myself  in  another  work."  But  Balzac  marred  a  tenth 
proof  with  his  erasures. 

Citing  himself  as  an  example,  he  preached  to  us  a 
strange  literary  hygiene.  We  must  cloister  ourselves 
three  or  four  years,  drink  water,  eat  boiled  peas  and 
beans  like  Protogenus,  go  to  bed  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening  to  rise  at  midnight  and  work  until  morning; 
employ  the  day  for  revising,  extending,  proving,  perfect- 
ing, polishing  the  nocturnal  labor ;  for  correcting  proofs, 
taking  notes,  making  the  necessary  studies,  and  we  must 
especially  live  in  the  most  absolute  chastity.  He  insisted 
very  much  upon  this  last  recommendation.  According 
to  him,  chastity  develops  in  the  highest  degree  the 
powers  of  the  mind,  and  gives  to  those  who  practise  it, 
unknown  faculties.  We  timidly  stated  that  many  of 
the  greatest  geniuses  had  not  carried  out  his  idea  in  this 
respect,  and  we  cited  illustrious  names.  Balzac  shook 
his  head  and  replied ;  "  They  would  have  done  far  better 
without  women." 

■  All  the  concession  he  would  grant,  and  this  he  did 
regretfully,  was  to  see  the  beloved  one  half  an  hour 
each  year.  He  allowed  letters :  "  These  form  the  st3''le," 
said  he. 

It  must  not  be  believed  that  Balzac  jested,  in  laying 
down  these  rules  which  the  Trappists  or  Carthusian 
friars  would  have  found  severe.  He  was  perfectly  in 
earnest,  and  spoke  with  such  eloquence  that  we  consci- 
entiously tried  his  method  of  awakening    genius;  we 


198  LIFE  rORTKAITS. 

rose  several  times  at  midnight,  and  after  having  taken 
the  inspiring  coffee,  proceeded  according  to  the  formula, 
seating  ourself  before  a  table  upon  which  sleep  did  not 
delay  to  incline  our  head.  "  La  Morte  Amoureuse^" 
publishedin  the  Paris  Chronicle,  was  our  only  nocturnal 
work. 

About  this  time,  Balzac  had  written  for  a  review, 
"Facino  Cane,"  the  story  of  a  noble  Venetian,  who, 
imprisoned  in  the  vaults  of  the  ducal  palace,  in  digging 
a  tunnel  for  escape,  had  fallen  upon  the  secret  treasure 
of  the  Republic,  a  good  part  of  which  by  the  aid  of  the 
bribed  jailor  he  carried  away.  Facino  Cane  having  be- 
come blind,  and  a  clarionet  player  under  the  name  of 
Pere  Canet,  had  despite  his  blindness,  preserved  the 
second  sight  for  gold ;  he  divined  it  through  walls  and 
vaults,  and  he  proposed  to  the  author  at  a  wedding  in 
the  faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  to  guide  him,  if  he  would 
defray  the  cost  of  the  journey,  to  that  immense  mass  of 
riches  whose  location  had  been  lost  through  the  fall  of 
the  Venetian  Republic. 

Balzac,  as  we  have  said,  lived  his  personages,  and  at 
this  moment,  he  was  Facino  Cane  himself,  minus  the 
blindness,  for  more  sparkling  eyes  never  beamed  from  a 
human  face.  He  now  saw  only  tons  of  gold,  heaps  of 
diamonds  and  carbuncles,  and  by  means  of  magnetism, 
with  whose  practices  he  had  been  long  familiar,  he  sought 
from  the  somnambulists  the  location  of  the  hidden  treasure. 
He  pretended  to  have  thus  learned  in  the  most  precise 
manner  the  place  where,  near  the  Pointe  a  Pitre,  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture  had  caused  his  booty  to  be  buried  by  negroes, 
who  were  immediately  shot.  "  The  Golden  Bug "  of 
Edgar  Poe  does  not  equal  in  subtlety  of  induction,  in 
clearness  of  plan,  in  divination  of  details,  the  absorbing 
recital  he  has  given  us  of  this  expedition  undertaken  for 


HOJTORE    DE    BALZAC.  199 

the  purpose  of  rendering  himself  master  of  that  treas- 
ure, far  richer  than  the  one  borne  away  by  Tom  Kidd 
and  buried  at  the  foot  of  the  Talipot,  at  the  Tete  de 
Mort. 

We  implore  the  reader  not  to  make  too  much  sport  of 
us  if  we  confess  in  all  humility  that  we  soon  shared  the 
conviction  of  Balzac.  What  brain  could  have  resisted 
his  infatuating  representations  ?  Jules  Sandeau  was  also 
soon  seduced,  and  as  two  reliable  friends  were  needed, 
two  devoted  and  robust  companions  to  make  the  noctur- 
nal excavations  under  the  direction  of  the  seer,  Balzac 
wished  to  admit  us  to  share  a  quarter  each  of  this  immense 
fortune.  A  half  was  to  revert  to  liim  by  right,  he  having 
conceived  and  directed  the  enterprise. 

We  were  to  buy  picks,  mattocks  and  shovels,  embark 
them  secretly  on  board  a  vessel,  and  go  ourselves  to  the 
designated  point  by  different  routes  so  as  not  to  excite 
suspicion,  and  the  blow  being  struck,  we  were  to  trans- 
port our  riches  upon  a  brig  chartered  in  advance.  In 
short,  it  was  all  a  romance,  which  would  have  been 
admirable  if  Balzac  had  written  it  instead  of  seeking  to 
act  it. 

It  is  needless  to  add  that  we  did  not  unearth  the 
treasure  of  ToussaintL'Ouverture.  Money  failed  us  to 
pay  our  passage ;  we  all  three  had  scarce  enough  to  buy 
the  mattocks. 

The  dream  of  a  sudden  fortune  won  by  some  strange 
and  marvellous  means,  often  haunted  Balzac's  brain : 
some  years  before  (in  1833)  he  had  made  a  voyage  to 
Sardinia  to  examine  the  dross  of  the  silver  mines  aban- 
doned by  the  Romans,  and  which,  treated  by  imperfect 
processes,  must  in  his  opinion,  still  contain  much  metal. 
The  idea  was  just ;  and  imprudently  confided,  made  the 
fortune  of  another. 


in. 

We  have  related  the  anecdote  of  the  treasure  buried 
by  Toussaint  L'Ouverture  not  for  the  pleasure  of  narra- 
ting a  whimsical  story,  but  because  it  is  connected  with 
a  dominant  idea  of  Balzac's — money.  Certainly,  no  per- 
son was  less  avaricious  than  he,  but  his  genius  made  him 
foresee  the  immense  r51e  this  metallic  hero  would  play 
in  art ;  a  rOle  more  interesting  for  modern  society  than 
that  of  the  Grandisons,  Oswalds,  Werthers,  Malek-Ad- 
hels.  Rends,  Laras,  Waverleys,  Quentin  Durwards,  etc 

Until  then,  romance  had  been  confined  to  the  por- 
trayal of  one  only  passion,  love  ;  but  it  was  love  in  an 
ideal  sphere,  and  beyond  the  miseries  and  necessities  of 
life.  The  personages  of  these  recitals,  entirely  psycho- 
logical, neither  ate  nor  drank  nor  lodged,  nor  had  an 
account  with  their  tailor.  They  moved  amid  abstract 
surroundings  like  the  characters  of  tragedy.  Did  they 
wish  to  travel  without  obtaining  a  passport,  they  put 
some  handfuls  of  diamonds  in  their  pockets,  and  with 
this  coin  paid  the  postilions  who  did  not  fail  at  each 
relay  to  have  killed  their  horses  by  fatigue.  Chateaux 
of  vague  architecture,  received  them  at  the  end  of  their 
route,  and  with  their  blood  they  wrote  to  their  fair  ones 
interminable  epistles,  dated  on  the  Tour  to  the  North. 
The  heroines,  no  less  immaterial,  resembled  "an  aqua 


HOXORE    I>E    BALZAC.  201 

tinta  of  Angelica  Kaufman  n's;  each  wore  a  huge  straw 
hat,  hair  frizzed  in  the  English  fashion,  a  long  robe 
of  white  muslin  confined  at  the  waist  by  an  azure  sash. 

With  his  profound  instinct  of  reality,  Balzac  compre- 
hended that  the  modern  life  he  wished  to  paint,  was 
ruled  by  one  grand  fact — money  ;  and  in  the  "  Peau  de 
Chagrin,''''  he  had  the  courage  to  present  a  lover  not 
only  anxious  to  know  if  he  had  touched  the  heart  of 
her  he  loved,  but  also,  if  she  had  enough  money  to  pay 
for  the  cab  in  which  he  was  attending  her.  This  au- 
dacity is  perhaps  one  of  the  greatest  that  would  be  allow- 
ed an  author,  and  it  alone  sufficed  to  immortalize  Bal- 
zac. The  consternation  was  profound,  and  the  purists 
were  indignant  at  this  infraction  of  the  laws  of  ffenre  ; 
but  all  the  young  people,  who  going  out  in  the  evening 
to  the  house  of  some  lady,  their  white  gloves  cleansed 
with  gum  elastic,  had  traversed  Paris  on  the  tips  of  their 
dancing-pumps,  dreading  a  speck  of  mud  more  than  a 
pistol-shot, — found  compensation  for  their  trials  in  the 
anxieties  of  Valentine,  and  were  vividly  interested  in 
that  hat  which  he  was  obliged  to  renovate  and  preserve 
with  cares  so  minute.  At  moments  of  supreme  misery, 
the  finding  of  one  of  those  pieces  of  a  hundred  sous 
slipped  between  the  papers  of  the  drawer  by  the  modest 
commiseration  of  Pauline,  produced  the  effect  of  the 
most  romantic  theatrical  strokes,  or  the  intervention  of 
a  Peri  in  the  Arabian  tales. 

Balzac  excels  in  the  portrayal  of  youth,  poor  as  it 
almost  always  is,  entering  upon  its  first  struggles  with 
life,  a  prey  to  temptation,  pleasure  and  luxury,  and 
bearing  profound  miseries  through  the  aid  of  high  hopes. 
Many  of  his  heroes  have  endured  great  hardships.  He 
does  not  lodge  them  all,  these  fine  young  people  without 
a  sou,  in  the   conventional  attic  with  chintz  hangings 

n* 


202  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

and  looking  out  upon  gardens ;  he  does  not  give  them 
to  eat  "  simple  viands  furnished  by  the  hand  of  nature;" 
he  does  not  clothe  them  in  garments  without  luxury,  but 
neat  and  suitable ;  he  puts  them  in  the  vulgar  boarding- 
house  with  Mamma  Vauquer,  or  coops  them  up  in  the 
sharp  angle  of  a  roof,  crowds  them  at  the  coarse  tables 
of  cheap  eating-houses,  muffles  them  up  in  black  gar- 
ments w*ith  gray  seams,  and  does  not  fear  to  send  them 
to  the  Mont-de-Piete,  if  they  still  possess, — a  rare  cir- 
cumstance,— their  father's  watch. 

O  Corinnelthou  who  upon  Cape  Misena,  lettest  thy 
snowy  arm  hang  upon  thine  ivory  lyre,  while  the  son 
of  Albian,  draped  in  a  superb  new  mantle,  and  shod  iu 
exquisitely  fitting,  highly  polished  boots,  gazes  upon 
thee,  and  listens  in  an  elegant  attitude ; — Corinne,  what 
would'st  thou  have  said  to  such  heroes  ?  And  yet  they 
possess  one  little  quality  which  was  wanting  to  thee, 
Oswald ; — they  live,  and  it  is  a  life  so  robust  that  it 
seems  as  if  we  had  met  them  a  thousand  times,  as  well 
as  the  heroines  with  whom  they  are  madly  in  love. 

At  the  period  when  the  first  romances  signed  by  Bal- 
zac appeared,  people  had  not  in  the  same  degree  as  to- 
day, the  anxiety,  or  we  might  rather  say,  the  fever  for 
gold. 

California  was  not  discovered ;  there  existed  only  a  few 
leagues  of  railways  of  whose  future  no  one  dreamed. 
The  public,  we  might  say,  ignored  that  which  we  call 
"business,"  to-day,  and  the  bankers  alone  gambled  upon 
the  bourse.  This  movement  of  capital,  this  sudden  out. 
pouring  of  gold,  these  calculations,  these  ciphers,  this 
importance  given  to  money  in  works  still  taken  as  sim- 
ple romantic  fictions  and  not  serious  portraitures  of  life, 
singularly  astonished  the  subscribers  to  the  circulating 
libraries,  and  criticism  reckoned  up  the  sum  total  ex- 


HON  ORE   DE   BALZAC.  203 

pended  or  staked  by  our  author.  The  millions  of  Pere 
Grandet  gave  place  to  arithmetical  discussions,  and 
grave  people,  startled  by  the  enormousness  of  the  entire 
sum,  doubted  the  financial  capacity  of  Balzac,  a  capacity 
very  great  notwithstanding,  and  recognized  at  a  later 
day. 

Stendhal  said,  with  a  sort  of  contemptuous  fatuity  (>f 
style:  "Before  writing,  I  always  read  three  or  four 
pages  of  the  Civil  Code  to  give  me  tone!''  Balzac,  who 
had  so  well  comprehended  money,  also  discovered  poems 
and  dramas  in  the  Code.  "  The  Marriage  Contract," 
where,  under  the  figures  of  Matthias  and  Solonnet,  he 
introduces  the  ancient  and  the  modern  notary,  has  all 
the  interest  of  the  most  eventful  comedy  of  the  cloak 
and  sword.  The  story  of  the  bankrupt  in  "  The  Grand- 
eur and  Decline  of  Csesar  Birotteau,"  makes  your  heart 
beat  like  the  history  of  an  empire-'s  fall ;  the  struggle  of 
the  chateau  and  the  thatched  cottage  in  "The  Peas- 
ants," presents  as  many  sudden  turns  of  fortune  as  the 
siege  of  Troy.  Balzac  knows  how  to  give  life  to  a  soil, 
to  a  house,  to  an  inheritance,  to  a  capital;  and  from 
these  he  creates  heroes  and  heroines  whose  adventures 
are  devoured  with  an  eager  avidity. 

These  new  elements  introduced  into  romance  did  not 
please  at  the  first;  these  philosophical  analyses,  these 
descriptions  of  a  minuteness  which  seemed  to  have  the 
future  in  view,  were  regarded  as  tediously  prolix,  and 
•were  oftenest  omitted  to  hasten  on  to  the  story.  Later, 
we  recognized  that  the  aim  of  our  author  was  not  to 
weave  intrigues  with  more  or  less  felicities  of  plot,  but 
to  paint  society  in  its  entireness  from  summit  to  base, 
with  its  personages  and  its  motive  power ;  and  we  ad- 
mire the  immense  variety  of  his  types.  Is  it  not  Alex- 
andre Dumas  who  says    of  Shakspeare:  "  Shakspeare, 


204  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

the  man  who  has  created  the  most  after  God  ?  "  The 
words  might  be  still  more  justly  applied  to  Balzac; 
never  in  fact  did  so  many  living  creatures  issue  from 
one  human  brain. 

At  this  time  (1836),  Balzac  had  conceived  the  plan 
of  his  "  Com<^die  Humaine,"  and  possessed  a  full  con- 
sciousness of  his  genius.  He  adroitly  connected  the 
works  which  had  already  appeared  to  his  general  idea, 
and  found  them  a  place  in  the  philosophical  categories 
marked  out.  Some  purely  imaginative  novels  did  not 
fit  on  very  well,  notwithstanding  the  clasps  added  for 
that  purpose ;  but  they  are  there,  mere  details  which 
lose  themselves  in  the  immensity  of  the  whole,  like 
ornaments  of  another  style  in  a  majestic  edifice. 

We  have  said  that  Balzac  wrought  laboriously,  and  an 
obstinate  caster,  ten  or  a  dozen  times,  expelled  from  his 
crucible  the  metal  which  had  not  exactly  filled  the 
mould.  Like  Bernard  Palissy,  he  would  have  burned  his 
furniture,  his  floor,  and  even  the  beams  of  his  house  to 
keep  up  the  fire  of  his  furnace,  so  as  not  to  fail  in  his 
experiment ;  the  most  rigid  necessities  never  made  him 
deliver  a  work  to  his  publisher,  upon  which  he  had  not 
expended  his  utmost  effort,  and  he  gave  admirable 
examples  of  literary  conscientiousness.  His  corrections, 
so  numerous  that  they  were  almost  equivalent  to  differ- 
ent editions  of  the  same  idea,  were  charged  to  his  ac- 
count by  the  publishers,  and  his  compensation,  often 
moderate  for  the  value  of  the  work  and  the  trouble  it 
had  cost  him,  was  diminished  in  proportion.  The 
promised  sums  did  not  always  arrive  when  due,  and  to 
sustain  what  he  laughingly  called  his  floating  debt,  Bal- 
zac displayed  prodigious  resources  of  mind,  and  an  ac- 
tivity which  would  have  completely  absorbed  the  life  of 
an  ordinary  man. 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  205 

But,  when  seated  before  liis  table  in  his  friar's  frock, 
in  the  midst  of  the  nocturnal  silence,  he  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  blank  sheets,  upon  which  was  projected 
the  light  of  his  luminary  of  seven  candles  concentrated 
by  a  shade,  taking  pen  in  hand,  he  forgot  all.  And  then 
commenced  a  conflict  more  terrible  than  the  conflict  of 
Jacob  with  the  angel,  that  between  the  form  and  the 
idea.  From  those  battles  of  each  night  at  morn  he 
issued  broken,  but  victorious,  the  fire  having  gone 
out,  and  the  atmosphere  of  his  room  being  chilled, 
his  head  smoked,  and  his  body  exhaled  a  mist  visible  as 
that  from  the  bodies  of  horses  in  the  winter  season. 
Sometimes  a  single  phrase  would  occupy  him  for  an 
entire  sitting  ;  it  was  appraised  and  reappraised,  twisted, 
kneaded,  hammered,  lengthened,  abbreviated;  written 
in  a  hundred  different  fashions,  and,  strangest  thing  of 
all !  the  necessary,  absolute  form,  presented  itself  only 
after  the  exhaustion  of  all  the  approximate  forms.  Doubt- 
less the  metal  often  cooled  in  a  fuller  and  thicker  cast, 
but  there  are  very  few  pages  in  Balzac  which  have  re- 
mained identical  with  the  first  draught. 

His  manner  of  procedure  was  this :  when  he  had  for  a 
long 'time  borne  and  lived  a  subject,  in  a  hand- writing, 
rapid,  involved,  illegible,  almost  hieroglyphical,  he  traced 
a  sort  of  scenario  of  a  few  pages,  which  he  sent  to  the 
printers,  who  returned  them  in  isolated  columns  in  the 
midst  of  large  sheets.  He  read  carefully  these  columns, 
which  already  gave  to  the  embryo  of  his  work  that  im- 
personal character  which  manuscript  does  not  have,  and 
he  applied  to  this  rough  sketch  that  critical  faculty  he 
possessed  in  so  eminent  a  degree,  treating  his  own  work 
as  if  it  were  the  work  of  another.  He  approved  or  he 
disapproved,  he  confirmed  or  he  corrected,  but  he 
always    added   lines   issuing   from    the  beginning,   the 


206  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

middle  or  the  end  of  phrases,  and  directed  toward  the 
margins,  to  the  right,  the  left,  the  top,  the  bottom,  lines 
leading  to  new  developments,  to  insertions,  to  incidental 
phrases,  to  epithets,  to  adverbs.  At  the  end  of  some 
hours  of  work  one  would  have  called  his  proof-sheet  a 
bouquet  of  fireworks  designed  by  a  child.  From  the  primi- 
tive text,  shot  forth  rockets  of  style  which  blazed  on  all 
sides.  Then  there  were  simple  crosses,  and  crosses  re- 
crossed  like  those  of  heraldry,  stars,  suns,  figures,  Arabic 
or  Roman,  lettere  Greek  or  French,  all  imaginable  signs 
of  reference.  Strips  of  paper  fastened  on  with  wafers 
or  pins,  added  to  the  insufficient  margins,  and  these 
were  striped  with  lines  in  fine  characters  for  want  of 
spac-e,  and  full  themselves  of  erasures ;  for  the  correc- 
tion scarce  made,  was  at  once  corrected.  The  printed 
column  was  almost  lost  in  the  midst  of  this  conju ring- 
book  of  cabalistic  appearance,  which  the  compositors 
passed  from  hand  to  hand,  each  willing  to  work  only  an 
hour  upon  Balzac. 

The  next  day  they  sent  back  the  proofs  with  the  cor- 
rections made,  and  augmented  by  half. 

Balzac  would  again  set  to  work,  amplifying  always, 
adding  a  feature,  a  detail,  a  description,  an  observation 
upon  manners,  a  characteristic  word,  a  phrase  for  effect, 
uniting  the  idea  more  closely  with  the  form,  alwayj 
approaching  nearer  his  interior  design,  choosing,  like  a 
painter,  the  definite  outline  from  three  or  four  con- 
tours. Often  this  terrible  work  having  been  accom- 
plished with  that  intensity  of  application  of  which  he 
alone  was  capable,  he  would  perceive  that  the  thought 
had  been  awkwardly  expressed,  that  an  episode  pre- 
dominated, that  a  figure  he  wished  secondary  for  the  gen- 
eral effect,  did  not  accord  with  his  plan, — and  with  one 
dash  of  the  pen,  he  would  courageouslj^  demolish  the 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  207 

result  of  four  or  five  night's  work.  He  was  heroic  in 
these  circumstances. 

Six,  seven,  and  sometimes  ten  proofs  were  sent  back, 
with  erasures  and  retouches,  without  satisfying  this 
author's  desire  for  perfection.  We  have  seen  at  the 
Jardies,  upon  the  shelves  of  a  library  composed  of  his 
works  alone,  the  different  proofs  of  the  same  work,  from 
the  first  sketch,  to  the  published  book,  each  volume 
bound  separately.  The  comparison  of  Balzac's  thought 
at  its  different  stages,  offers  a  very  curious  study,  and 
must  contain  profitable  literary  lessons.  Near  these 
volumes,  an  old  book  of  sinister  aspect,  bound  in  black 
morocco  without  clasps  or  gilding,  drew  our  glance. 
"  Take  it "  said  Balzac  to  us,  "  it  is  an  unpublished 
work  which  may  well  have  its  value."  The  title  was 
Comptes  Melaneoliques,  it  contained  lists  of  debts, 
notices  of  the  falling  due  of  bills-payable,  memoranda 
of  shop-keepers  and  all  that  menacing  old  waste-paper 
the  stamp-office  legalizes.  This  volume,  by  a  sort  of 
jeering  contrast,  was  placed  beside  the  Oontes  Drolati- 
ques  "of  which  it  is  not  a  continuation," — added  laugh- 
ing, the  author  of  "  The  Human  Comedy." 

Despite  this  laborious  method  of  execution,  Balzac 
produced  a  great  deal,  thanks  to  his  superhuman  will, 
supplemented  by  an  athletic  temperament  and  a  monk- 
ish seclusion.  For  two  or  three  months  in  succession 
when  he  had  some  important  work  in  progress,  he  would 
apply  himself  sixteen  or  eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty- 
four.  He  granted  to  his  physical  system  only  six  hours 
of  a  heavy,  feverish,  convulsive  sleep,  induced  by  torpid 
digestion  after  a  hastily  taken  meal.  He  would  at  such 
times  disappear  completely,  his  best  friends  losing  all 
trace  of  him ;  but  he  would  ere  long  descend  to  our 
lower  earth  brandishing  a  chef-d'oeuvre  above  his  head, 


208  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

laughing  his  hearty  laugh,  applauding  himself  with  a 
perfect  simplicity,  and  giving  himself  those  praises  he 
asked  from  no  one.  No  author  was  less  anxious  than 
he  in  regard  to  favorable  criticisms  of  his  books ;  he  let 
his  reputation  make  itself  unaided,  and  he  never  courted 
the  journalists.  He  had  indeed  no  time.  He  simply 
delivered  up  his  copy,  took  his  money,  and  fled  to  dis- 
tribute it  among  his  creditors  who  often  waited  in  the 
newspaper  court. 

Sometimes  he  came  to  us  in  the  morning.  Out  of 
breath,  exhausted,  giddy  from  encountering  the  fresh 
air, — like  Vulcan  escaping  from  his  forge,  he  would 
"throw  himself  upon  a  divan.  His  long  vigils  had  almost 
famished  him,  and  he  would  mix  sardines  with  butter 
making  a  sort  of  pomade  which  reminded  him  of  the 
rillettes  of  Tours,  and  which  he  spread  upon  his  bread. 
This  was  his  favorite  food.  He  had  no  sooner  eaten, 
than  he  fell  asleep,  begging  us  to  waken  him  at  the  end 
of  an  hour.  Without  regarding  this  injunction,  we 
would  respect  the  sleep  so  well  earned,  and  silence  all 
the  noises  about  our  lodgings.  When  Balzac  awoke  of 
his  own  accord,  and  saw  that  the  evening  twilight  was 
diffusing  its  gray  tints  over  the  sky,  he  would  bound 
from  his  sofa,  and  load  us  with  abuse,  calling  us  traitor, 
thief,  assassin,  and  declaring  that  we  had  made  him  lose 
ten  thousand  francs  ;  for,  if  awakened,  he  should  have  • 
formed  the  idea  of  a  romance  which  would  have  brought 
him  that  sum  (without  the  re-impressions).  We  had 
caused  the  gravest  catastrophes,  and  unimaginable  dis, 
orders.  We  had  made  him  miss  a  rendezvous  with  bank- 
ers, editors,  duchesses ;  he  should  not  be  in  time  to 
meet  the  expiration  of  his  notes ;  this  fatal  sleep  would 
cost  millions.  But  we  were  already  habituated  to  these 
prodigious  martingales  of  Balzac's  and  easily  consoled 


nONORE    DE    BALZAC.  209 

ourself  in  seeing  the  beautiful  color  of  his  boyhood  re- 
appear on  his  rejuvenated  cheeks. 

Balzac  then  dwelt  at  Chaillot,  Rue  de  Batailles,  a 
bouse  which  afforded  an  admirable  prospect  of  the  wind- 
ings of  the  Seine,  the  Champ  de  Mars,  the  Military 
Schools,  the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  a  great  portion  of 
Paris  and  the  hills  of  Meudon  beyond.  He  had  arranged 
here  an  interior  luxurious  enough,  for  he  knew  that  in 
Paris  they  believe  little  in  impoverished  talent,  and 
that  to  seerm  here  often  leads  one  to  he.  With  this 
period  are  connected  his  inclinations  toward  elegance 
and  dandyism ;  that  famous  blue  coat  with  buttons  of 
massive  gold,  that  walking-stick  with  a  turquoise  head, 
those  apparitions  at  the  comic  theatres  and  the  opera, 
and  those  more  frequent  visits  into  society,  where  his 
sparkling  animation  made  him  much  sought;  these 
were  useful  visits  to  him  besides,  for  he  met  there  more 
than  one  model. 

It  was  not  easy  to  penetrate  into  this  abode  of  Bal- 
zac's, which  was  better  guarded  than  the  garden  of  the 
Hesperides.  Two  or  three  passwords  were  required. 
Balzac,  for  fear  they  might  get  bruited  abroad,  changed 
them  often.  We  remember  these:  You  said  to  the 
porter.  "The  season  of  prunes  has  arrived,"  and  he  let 
you  pass  the  threshold.  To  the  servant  who  ran  to  the 
stair-case  at  the  sound  of  the  bell,  you  must  whisper : 
"I  bring  laces  from  Belgium,"  and  if  you  could  assure 
the  valet  de  chambre  that  Madame  Bertrand  was  in 
good  health,  you  were  at  last  introduced. 

These  puerilities  very  much  amused  Balzac.  They 
were  necessary  to  send  away  troublesome  people  and 
other  visitors  still  more  disagreeable. 

In  the  "  Fille  aux  Yeux  d'Or,"  we  find  a  description 
of  this  salon  in  the  Rue  des  Batailles.     It  is  of  the 


210  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

most  scrupulous  fidelity,  and  our  reader  will  perhaps  not 
be  sorry  to  see  the  lion's  lair  painted  by  himself.  There 
is  not  a  detail  added  or  omitted. 

"  Half  of  the  boudoir  described  a  delicately  graceful, 
circular  outline,  opposite  which  lay  the  other  half  per- 
fectly square,  and  having  in  its  centre  an  elegant  fire 
place  of  white  marble  and  gold.  You  entered  through 
a  side  door  concealed  by  a  rich  tapestry  portiere^  which 
faced  a  window.  The  back  of  the  room  was  adorned 
with  a  real  Turkish  divan,  that  is  to  say  with  a  mattrass 
placed  upon  the  floor,  but  a  mattrass  as  large  as  a  bed, 
a  divan  fifty  feet  in  circumference,  covered  with  white 
cashmere,  relieved  by  knots  of  black  and  flame-colored 
silk  arranged  in  lozenges ;  the  back  of  this  immense  bed 
rose  several  inches  above  the  numerous  cushions  which 
enriched  it  still  more  by  the  taste  of  their  adornings. 
This  boudoir  was  hung  with  a  red  stuff  over  which  was 
disposed  an  India  muslin,  fluted  like  a  Corinthian 
column,  by  pipes  alternately  hollow  and  round,  confined 
at  the  top  and  bottom  by  a  band  of  flame-colored  stuff 
upon  which  were  drawn  black  arabesques.  Under  the 
muslin,  the  flame-color  became  .rose,  an  amorous  color 
repeated  in  the  window-curtains  which  were  of  India 
muslin  looped  with  rose-colored  tafettas.  Six  silver- 
gilt  arms,  each  bearing  two  wax  candles,  were  attached, 
at  equal  distances  apart,  to  the  hangings,  and  lighted 
the  divan.  The  ceiling,  from  the  centre  of  which  de- 
pended a  lustre  of  pale  vermillion,  glittered  with  white- 
ness, and  the  cornice  was  gilded.  The  carpet  resembled 
an  Oriental  shawl ;  it  presented  the  designs  and  recalled 
the  poetry  of  Persia  where  the  hands  of  slaves  had 
wrought  it.  The  furniture  was  covered  with  white 
cashmere,  set  off  by  black  and  flame-color  ornaments. 
The  clock,  the  candelabras,  were  all  of  white  marble  and 


HONORE  DE  BALZAC.  211 

gold.  The  only  table  in  the  room  hail  a  cashmere 
cover ;  there  were  also  elegant  flower-stands,  containing 
roses  of  all  kinds,  and  white  or  red  flowers." 

We  may  add  that  upon  the  table  was  placed  a  magni- 
ficent writing-desk,  in  gold  and  malachite,  the  gift, 
doubtless,  of  some  foreign  admirer. 

It  was  with  a  childlike  satisfaction  that  Balzac  showed 
us  this  boudoir,  arranged  in  the  midst  of  a  square  salon, 
and  necessarily  leaving  empty  spaces  at  the  angles  of 
the  circular  half.  When  we  had  sufficiently  admired 
these  coquettish  splendors,  whose  luxury  would  seem 
less  to-day,  Balzac  opened  a  secret  door  and  made  us 
penetrate  into  an  obscure  passage  which  led  around  the 
semi-circle  ;  at  one  of  the  angles  was  placed  a  narrow 
iron  bedstead,  a  kind  of  camp  bed ;  in  the  other,  there 
was  a  table  with  all  sorts  of  writing  materials.  It  was 
here  that  Balzac  took  refuge  to  labor  shielded  from  all 
intrusion  and  investigation. 

He  gave  us  in  the  same  boudoir  a  splendid  dinner,  in 
honor  of  which  he  lighted  with  his  own  hand  all  the 
wax  candles  in  the  silver-gilded  arms  as  well  as  those 
of  the  lustre  and  the  candelabras.  The  guests  were  the 
Marquis  de  B.  and  the  painter  L.  B.  Although  very 
sober  and  abstemious  from  habit,  Balzac  from  time  to 
time  did  not  fear  to  drain  a  beaker  to  the  lees.  He  ate 
with  that  jovial  gourmandism  which  appetite  inspires, 
and  he  drank  in  a  Pantagruelic  fashion.  Four  bottles 
of  the  white  wine  of  Vouvray,  one  of  the  most  capital 
wines  in  the  world,  did  not  in  the  least  affect  his  strong 
brain,  and  only  gave  a  more  lively  sparkle  to  his  gayety. 
What  good  stories  he  told  us  at  dessert !  Rabelais,  Ber- 
valde  de  Verville,  Eutrappel,  Le  Pogge,  Straparole,  the 
Queen  of  Navarre  and  all  the  doctors  of  the  gate  science^ 
would  have  recognized  in  him  a  disciple  and  a  master ! 


IV. 

OiSE  of  the  dreams  of  Balzac  was  heroic  and  devoted 
friendship,  two  souls,  two  valors,  two  intelligences  mol- 
ten into  the  same  will.  Pien'e  and  Jaffier  of  Otway's 
*'  Venice  Preserved  "  had  impressed  him  greatly^  and  he 
spoke  of  them  upon  several  occasions.  His  "  History  of 
the  Thirteen "  is  only  this  idea  enlarged  and  compli- 
cated :  one  powerful  unit  composed  of  multiple  beings, 
all  acting  blindly  for  an  accepted  and  suitable  end. 
"We  know  what  strildng,  mysterious  and  terrible  effects 
he  has  drawn  from  this  starting-point  in  "  Ferragus," 
"  The  Duchess  of  Longeais  "  and  "  The  Girl  with  the 
Golden  Eyes."  But  the  real  life  and  the  intellectual 
life  did  not  clearly  separate  themselves  in  Balzac  as  in 
certain  authors,  and  his  creations  followed  him  outside 
his  study.  He  wished  to  form  an  association  upon  the 
principle  of  that  which  united  Ferragus,  Montriveau, 
RouquersoUes  and  their  companions.  A  certain  number 
of  persons  were  to  lend  each  other  aid  and  succor  on 
all  occasions,  and  to  labor  according  to  their  strength, 
for  the  success  or  the  fortune  of  the  individual  requiring 
aid — upon  condition  of  a  future  return  which  was  to  be 
well  understood. 

Very  much  infatuated  with  his  project,  Balzac  re- 
cruited some  associates,  whom  he  placed  in  communica- 


HONORE     DE    BALZAC.  213 

tion  with  each  other,  taking  precautions  as  if  he  had  to 
do  with  a  political  society  or  a  gang  of  carbonari.  This 
mystery,  very  useless  indeed,  amused  him  vastly, 
and  he  was  very  much  in  earnest  in  his  proceedings. 
When  the  number  was  complete,  he  assembled  the 
adepts  and  made  known  the  aims  of  the  society.  We 
need  not  say  that  each  expressed  his  opinions  warmly, 
and  that  the  statutes  were  voted  with  enthusiasm.  No 
person  in  a  higher  degree  than  Balzac  possessed  the 
gift  of  exciting,  stirring  up  and  intoxicating  the  coldest 
brains,  the  most  sedate  reasons.  He  had  an  eloquence, 
overflowing,  impetuous,  enticing,  which  bore  you  on- 
ward at  his  will ;  no  objection  was  possible  with  him ; 
he  would  at  once  drown  you  in  such  a  deluge  of  words 
that  you  were  compelled  to  be  silent.  And  besides,  he 
had  a  response  for  all ;  when  he  cast  upon  you  those 
glances  so  flashing,  so  illuminated,  so  charged  with 
electricity,  he  infused  you  with  his  own  desire. 

The  association,  which  included  among  its  members 
several  aspiring  literary  men,  was  called  the  Cheval 
Rouge.  Why  the  Cheval  Rouge,  rather  than  the  "  Gold- 
en Lion  "  or  the  "  Maltese  Cross  ?  "  The  first  reunion 
of  the  members  took  place  at  a  restaurant  upon  the 
quay  Entrepot  at  the  end  of  the  Tournelle  bridge,  whose 
sign  was  a  quadruped,  ruhriea  pictus,  and  this  gave 
Balzac  the  idea  of  that  designation,  which  was  odd,  un- 
intelligible and  cabalistic  enough. 

When  some  project  is  to  be  concerted,  certain  pro- 
ceedings are  in  order.  Balzac,  elected  by  acclamation 
grand  master  of  the  order,  sent  by  a  trusty  person  to 
each  horse  (this  was  the  slang  name  the  members  took 
among  themselves)  a  billet  upon  which  was  the  picture 
of  a  little  red  horse,  with  these  words :  "  Stable,  such 
a  day,  such  a  place."     The  place  changed  every  time 


214  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

for  fear  of  awakening  curiosity  or  suspicion.  In  society, 
although  for  the  most  part  we  were  very  intimately  ac- 
quainted, we  were  to  avoid  speaking  or  approaching  each 
other  save  in  the  most  distant  manner,  so  as  to  prevent 
any  idea  of  connivance.  Often,  in  the  middle  of  a 
salon,  Balzac  would  pretend  to  have  met  me  for  the  first 
time,  and  through  twinklings  of  the  eye,  and  gestures 
such  as  actors  make  in  their  asides,  he  would  call  my 
attention  to  his  artifice,  and  seem  to  say  to  me :  "  See 
how  well  I  am  playing  my  part !  " 

What  was  the  aim  of  the  Cheval  Rouge  ?  Did  it  wish 
to  change  the  government,  to  impose  a  new  religion,  to 
found  a  philosophical  school,  to  rule  men,  to  seduce 
women  ?  Far  less  than  that.  It  sought  to  take  posses- 
sion of  the  journak,  to  invade  the  theatres,  to  seat  its 
members  in  the  chairs  of  the  Academy,  to  provide  them 
with  decorations,  and  to  end  modestly,  by  making  them 
all  peers  of  any  one  in  France,  minister  or  millionaire. 

All  this  was  easy  according  to  Balzac ;  we  had  only 
to  understand  each  other,  and  by  such  mediocre  ambi- 
tions we  should  well  prove  the  moderation  of  our  char- 
acters. This  devil  of  a  man  had  such  a  powerful  vision 
that  he  described  to  each  of  us  in  the  minutest  details, 
the  splendid  and  glorious  life  this  association  would 
procure  for  us.  In  listening  to  him,  we  believed  our- 
selves already  established  in  an  elegant  hotel,  leaning 
against  the  white  marble  mantel,  the  red  cordon  around 
our  neck,  a  diamond  order  upon  our  breast,  receiving 
with  an  affable  air,  political  dignitaries,  artists  and  men 
of  letters,  astonished  at  our  mysterious  and  rapid  for- 
tune. For  Balzac,  the  future  did  not  exist,  all  was  in 
the  present ;  the  future  evoked  by  him,  cleared  itself  of 
mists  and  assumed  the  lucidity  of  palpable  things ;  the 
idea  was  so  vivid  that  it  became  real  in  some  sort.     Did 


HONOEE    DE    BALZAC.  215 

he  speak  of  a  dinner,  he  ate  it  in  recounting  it;  of  a 
carriage,  he  felt  underneath  him  the  soft  cushions,  and 
the  swift,  steady  traction ;  a  perfect  satisfaction,  a  pro- 
found delight  was  at  such  times  depicted  upon  his  face, 
although  he  often  fasted  and  walked  over  the  sharp 
pavement  with  shoes  run  down  at  the  heels. 

The  whole  band  would  signalize,  extol  and  glorify  by 
articles,  notices  and  conversations,  the  one  of  its  mem- 
bers who  had  just  put  forth  a  book  or  enacted  a  drama. 
Whoever  showed  himself  hostile  to  one  of  the  horses, 
drew  upon  himself  the  kicks  of  the  whole  stable ;  the 
CJieval  Rouge  would  not  pardon ;  the  culprit  became 
liable  to  knocks,  to  punches,  to  pin-pricks,  to  sly  thrusts, 
to  all  those  means  of  vengeance  which  can  drive  men 
as  well  as  small  journals  to  despair. 

We  smile  in  betraying  after  so  many  years,  the  inno- 
cent secrets  of  this  literary  free-masonry,  which  had  no 
other  result  than  some  catch-words  for  a  book  whose 
success  had  no  need  of  them.  But  at  the  moment,  we 
took  the  thing  seriously;  we  imagined  ourselves  to  be 
the  thirteen  themselves  in  person,  and  we  were  sur- 
prised at  not  passing  within  those  walls  ;  but  the  world 
is  such  a  wretched  machine  !  What  an  important  and 
mysterious  air  we  had,  in  jostling  other  men,  poor  hour- 
g.ms^  who  doubted  nothing  of  our  power. 

After  four  or  five  reunions,  the  Cheval  Rouge  ceased 
to  exist.  Most  of  the  horses  had  not  money  to  pay  for 
their  oats  in  this  symbolic  manger,  and  the  association 
which  was  going  to  make  itself  master  of  everything, 
was  dissolved  because  its  members  often  failed  to  have 
the  fifteen  fi'ancs,  the  price  of  the  reckoning.  Each  one 
now  replunged  alone  into  the  mel^e  of  life,  fighting  his 
way  with  his  own  arms ;  and  this  it  is  which  explains 
why  Balzac  was  not  a  member  of  the  Academy,  and 
died  a  simple  Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 


216  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  idea  was  good,  for  Balzac,  as  he 
said  of  Nucingen,  could  not  have  a  bad  idea.  Others 
who  have  succeeded,  have  set  to  the  work  without  sur 
rounding  themselves  with  the  same  romantic  phautas 
magoria. 

Coming  down  from  one  chimera,  Balzac  very  quickly 
mounted  a  new  one,  and  he  set  out  for  another  voyage 
in  the  blue,  with  that  childlike  simplicity  which  in  him, 
was  allied  to  the  profoundest  sagacity  and  the  shrewdest 
intellect. 

How  many  whimsical  projects  he  has  unrolled  to  us, 
how  many  strange  paradoxes  we  have  heard  him  uphold, 
always  with  the  same  good  faith !  Now,  he  would  argue 
that  one  could  live  upon  nine  sous  a  day ;  now,  he  would 
exact  a  hundred  thousand  francs  for  comfort  even  in 
the  strictest  sense.  Once,  summoned  by  us  to  prove 
his  reckoning  by  figures,  he  replied  to  our  objection 
that  thirty  thousand  francs  still  remained  unappropria- 
ted !  "  Ah,  well !  that  is  for  the  butter  and  radishes. 
Where  is  there  a  well-conducted  household  that  does 
not  consume  thirty  thousand  francs  worth  of  radishes 
and  butter  a  year  ?  "  We  wish  we  had  power  to  por- 
tray' the  glance  of  sovereign  disdain  he  cast  upon  us 
as  he  gave  this  triumphal  reason  ;  that  glance  said  ;  "  De- 
cidedly this  Theo  is  but  a  poor  ignoramus,  a  ragamuffin,  a 
paltry  soul ;  he  understands  nothing  of  a  grand  existence ; 
he  has  all  his  life  eaten  only  the  stale  butter  of  Brittany ! " 

The  Jardies  was  occupying  a  great  deal  of  public  at- 
tention, when  Balzac  bought  the  place  with  the  honor- 
able intention  of  making  an  investment  for  his  mother. 
Passing  over  the  railway  leading  past  Ville  d'Avary 
every  one  gazed  curiously  at  this  little  house,  half  cot- 
tage, half  chalet,  which  rose  in  the  midst  of  a  sloping 
and  apparently  loamy  plot  of  ground. 


HOBTORE   DE   BALZAC.  217 

This  piece  of  land,  in  Balzac's  opinion,  was  the  best 
in  the  world :  he  pretended  that  formerly  a  certain  cel- 
ebrated vineyard  had  flourished  here,  and  that  the 
grapes,  thanks  to  the  unparalleled  exposure,  had  dried  in 
<he  sun  like  Tokay  grapes  upon  the  hills  of  Bohemia. 
The  sun,  it  is  true,  had  entire  liberty  to  ripen  the  vin- 
tage in  this  place,  where  there  existed  only  one  tree. 
Balzac  tried  to  enclose  his  piece  of  property  within 
walls,  which  became  famous  for  their  obstiDacy  in 
crumbling  away,  or  rolling  in  whole  pieces  down  the  too 
abrupt  declivity.  He  dreamed  of  the  most  fabulous  and 
exotic  improvements  for  this  place  so  favored  of  heaven 

Here,  naturally  comes  in  that  ancedote  of  the  ananas, 
which  has  been  so  often  repeated  that  we  would  not 
tell  it  again  except  to  add  one  more  very  character- 
istic trait  to  our  sketch  of  Balzac.  The  project  was 
this ;  a  hundred  thousand  feet  of  Tinanas  were  planted 
within  the  precincts  of  the  Jardies,  metamorphosed  in- 
to hot-house  beds  which  fi-om  the  torridity  of  the  situa- 
tion required  only  moderate  heating.  The  ananas  were 
to  be  sold  for  five  francs  in  place  of  the  louis  they 
ordinarily  cost,  or  for  a  total  of  five  hundred  thousand 
francs.  From  this  sum  one  hundred  thousand  francs 
must  be  deducted  for  the  cost  of  culture,  window  sashes 
and  coal ;  four  hundred  thousand  francs  clear  profit 
vould  remain,  making  a  splendid  income  for  the  fortu- 
nate proprietor.  "Without  a  single  proof  sheet,** 
added  he. — This  was  nothing :  Balzac  had  a  thousand 
projects  of  the  same  kind;  but  the  finest  thing  of  all 
is  that  we  sought  together,  upon  the  boulevard  Mont- 
martre,  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  the  ananas  yet  in  germ. 
The  shop  was  to  be  painted  black,  set  off  with  fillets  of 
gold,  and  was  to  bear  upon  its  sign  in  enormous  letters, 
this  legend :     "  ANANAS  DES  JARDIES." 


218  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

For  Balzac,  the  hundred  thousand  ananas  reared  al- 
ready their  crest  of  vemed  leaves  above  their  huge 
golden  cones  arranged  in  quadrilles  under  immense 
crystal  arches ;  he  saw  them,  he  expanded  in  the  high 
temperature  of  his  hothouses,  he  breathed  the  tropical 
perfume  into  his  eagerly  distended  nostrils ;  and  when, 
re-entering  his  house,  he  saw,  resting  his  elbows  on  the 
window-sill,  the  snows  silently  descending  upon  his  dis- 
mantled hill-side,  he  could  scarce  dispossess  himself  of 
his  illusion. 

Meantime,  he  followed  our  advice,  which  was  to  defer 
hiring  the  shop  until  the  next  year  so  as  to  avoid  use- 
less expense. 

We  write  our  reminiscences*  as  they  recur  to  us, 
without  trying  to  arrange  in  order  things  which  can 
have  no  natural  sequence. — Besides,  as  Boileau  says, 
transitions  are  the  great  difficulty  of  poetry — and  of 
newspaper  essays  too,  let  us  add ; — ^but  modern  journal- 
ists have  not  so  much  conscience,  nor  above  all  so  much 
leisure  as  the  legislator  of  Parnassus. 

Madame  de  Girardin  professed  for  Balzac  a  lively 
admiration  to  which  he  was  sensible,  and  for  which  he 
showed  his  gratitude  by  frequent  visits ;  a  costly  return 
for  him  who  was,  with  good  right,  so  avaricious  of  his 
time  and  of  his  working  hours.  Never  did  woman 
possess  to  so  high  a  degree  as  Delpliine, — we  were  al- 
lowed to  call  her  by  this  familiar  name  among  ourselves 
— the  gift  of  drawing  out  the  wit  of  her  guests.  With 
her,  we  always  found  ourselves  in  poetical  raptures, 
and  each  left  her  salon  amazed  at  himself.  There  wasj 
no  flint  so  rough  that  she  could  not  cause  it  to  emit  one 
spark ;  and  with  Balzac,  as  you  may  well  believe,  there 
was  no  need  of  trying  long  to  strike  fire ;  he  flashed  and 
kindled  at  once. 


HOlSrORE    DE    BALZAC.  219 

Balzac  was  not  precisely  what  we  call  a  talker,  quick 
in  repartee,  throwing  a  subtle  and  decisive  word  into  a 
discussion.  Changing  the  thread  of  the  discourse  at 
will,  touching  everything  lightly,  he  had  an  irresistible 
enthusiasm,  eloquence  and  wit ;  and  as  every  one 
became  silent  to  listen  to  him,  to  the  general  satisfac- 
tion, the  conversation  on  his  part,  would  soon  fall  into 
soliloquy.  The  starting-point  was  soon  forgotten,  and 
he  would  pass  from  an  anecdote  to  a  philosophical  re- 
flection, from  an  observation  upon  manners  to  a  local 
description ;  and  as  he  spoke,  his  face  glowed,  his  eyes 
assumed  a  peculiar  lustre,  his  voice  took  different  inflec- 
tions, and  sometimes  he  would  burst  into  peals  of  laugh- 
ter, diverted  by  comic  apparitions,  which  he  saw  before 
describing  them.  Thus,  by  a  sort  of  flourish  of  trump- 
ets, he  would  announce  the  entree  of  his  caricatures 
and  pleasantries,  and  his  hilarity  was  soon  shared  by 
all  around  him. 

Although  this  was  the  epoch  of  dishevelled  dreamers, 
of  weeping  willows,  of  sorrowing  Werthers,  of  Byronic 
disillusions,  Balzac  had  that  robust  and  powerful  merri- 
ment we  ascribe  to  Rabelais,  and  which  Moliere  shows 
only  in  his  comedies.  That  loud  laugh  expanding  upon 
his  sensuous  lips,  was  the  laugh  of  a  god,  a  good  fellow, 
who  enjoys  the  theatrical  exhibitions  of  human  puppets^ 
and  who  is  troubled  at  nothing  because  he  comprehends 
all,  and  grasps  the  two  sides  of  a  question  at  the  same 
time.  Neither  the  anxieties  of  an  often  precarious  exis- 
tence ;  nor  the  want  of  money,  nor  the  fatigues  of  exces- 
sive labor,  nor  the  solitude  of  study,  nor  a  renunciation  of 
the  pleasures  of  life,  nor  sickness  itself,  could  repress 
that  Herculean  joviality,  in  our  opinion,  one  of  the 
most  striking  characteristics  of  Balzac.  By  laughing, 
he  slew  hydras ;  by  merriment,  he  tore  lions  in  pieces, 


220  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

and,  as  if  it  had  been  a  hare,  he  carried  the  wild  hoar  of 
Erymanthus  upon  his  gigantic  muscular  shoulders. 

At  the  least  provocation,  the  merriment  broke  forth 
from  his  sturdy  breast.  It  took  some  fastidious  in- 
di\iduals  by  surprise,  but  they  were  forced  to  join  in  it, 
despite  every  effort  at  gravity.  But  do  not  believe 
that  Balzac  sought  merely  to  divert  his  listeners !  He 
obeyed  a  sort  of  inward  intoxication,  and  with  a 
facetious  talent  beyond  compare,  dressed  up  the  odd 
phantasmagoria  dancing  in  the  shadowy  chamber  of  his 
brain.  The  impression  produced  by  certain  of  his 
conversations  was  like  that  we  experience  in  turning 
over  the  whimsical  illustrations  of  the  "  Contes  Dro- 
latiques"  by  Master  Alcofribas  Nasier.  These  are 
monstrous  personages  composed  of  the  most  hybrid 
elements,  but  an  intense  life  animates  these  chimerical 
beings,  and  in  their  grimacing  faces  we  recognize  the 
vices,  the  follies  and  the  passions  of  man.  A  few, 
although  absurd  beyond  the  utmost  limits  of  the  possible, 
strike  you  as  portraits.     You  could  give  them  a  name. 

When  you  listened  to  Balzac,  a  whole  carnival  of 
extravagant  puppets  danced  before  your  eyes,  taking 
you  by  the  lappel  of  your  coat,  breathing  secrets  into 
your  ear  in  a  disguised  and  nasal  tone,  pirouetting, 
whirling  around  you  in  the  midst  of  a  scintillation  of 
lights  and  spangles.  Nothing  was  more  calculated  to 
make  you  giddy,  and,  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  like 
the  student  after  the  discourse  of  Mephistopheles,  you 
felt  a  millstone  turning  in  your  brain. 

One  of  his  favorite  jests  was  to  counterfeit  the  Ger- 
man jargon  of  Nucingen  or  Schmuke,  or  better  yet,  to 
speak  after  the  fashion  of  the  bourgeois  boarding-house 
of  Madame  Vauquer.  When  composing  "A  Beginning 
in  Life,"  he  sought,  far  and  near,  proverbs  for  his  "  Mis- 


HON  ORE    DE   BALZAC.  221 

tigris'  whom  lie  made  so  witty  that  he  afterwards  gave 
him  a  fine  position  in  the  "  Comedie  Humaine"  under 
the  name  of  the  great  landscape-painter,  Leon  de  Lora. 
Mrae.  de  Girardin  was  also  in  quest  of  sayings  for  one  of 
lier  characters  in  the  "  Courier  of  Paris."  They  some- 
times sought  the  aid  of  the  writer  of  this  sketch,  and,  if  a 
stranger  had  entered  Mrae.  de  Girardin's  parlor  some  of 
these  evenings,  he  would  have  seen  the  beautiful  Del- 
phine,  with  a  profoundly  dreamy  air,  twining  the  spirals 
of  her  golden  hair  around  her  white  fingers,  while  Balzac 
would  be  seated  upon  one  of  the  arms  of  the  great  cush 
ioned  easy-chair,  where  M.  de.  Girardin  slept  as  usual,  his 
arms  crossed  over  his  ample  breast,  the  muscles  of  his 
face  contracted,  as  if  by  some  extroardinary  disturbance 
of  mind.  For  ourself,  we  crouched  amid  the  cushions 
of  the  divan,  like  a  hallucinated  thieriaki.  This  stranger 
doubtless  would  have  supposed  Balzac  thinking  of  a 
new  Firmiani,  Madame  de  Girardin  of  a  new  role  for 
Mademoiselle  Rachel,  and  ourself  of  some  sonnet.  But 
it  was  nothing  of  the  kind. 

What  beautiful  evenings  were  these  that  can  return 
no  more !  We  were  then  far  from  foreseeing  that  this 
grand  and  superb  woman,  sculptured  as  it  were  from 
the  perfect  antique  marble,  that  this  man,  thickset,  ro- 
bust, vivacious,  vigorous,  half  Hercules,  half  satyr,  made 
to  live  more  than  a  hundred  years,  would  so  soon  go 
from  us,  to  sleep,  the  one  at  Montmartre,  the  other  at 
P^re  La  Chaise  ;  and  that  of  the  three,  we  should  alone 
remain,  to  fix  these  remembrances,  already  distant  and 
liearly  lost. 

Like  his  father,  who  died  accidentally  at  more  than 
eighty  years  of  age,  and  who  had  flattered  himself  that 
he  should  live  much  longer,  Balzac  believed  in  his  lon- 
gevity.    He  often  formed  projects  for  the  future.     He 


222  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

was  going  to  finish  the  "  Human  Comedy,"  to  write  the 
"  Theory  of  Application,"  to  compose  the  "  Monography 
of  Virtue"  and  fifty  dramas  ;  to  attain  to  a  great  fortune, 
•to  marry,  and  have  two  children,  but  no  more ;  "  Two 
children  look  well,"  said  he,  "  in  the  front  of  a  caliche." 
All  this  was  not  to  require  so  very  long  a  time,  but  we 
begged  him  to  take  note  that  these  designs  accomplished 
he  would  be  almost  eighty  years  old.  "  Eighty !  "  cried 
he,  "bah  !  that  is  the  flower  of  man's  age." 

Balzac  had  in  him  the  materials  for  a  great  actor. 
He  possessed  a  full,  sonorous  metallic  voice  with  a  rich 
and  powerful  ring,  which  he  knew  how  to  moderate  and 
make  soft  at  will ;  and  he  read  in  an  admirable  manner, 
a  talent  which  most  actors  lack.  Whatever  he  related, 
he  acted  with  intonations,  grimaces  and  gestures,  which 
no  comedian  could  surpass. 

We  find  in  the  Marguerite  of  Madame  de  Girardin, 
this  souvenir  of  Balzac.  It  is  a  personage  of  the  book 
who  speaks: 

"  He  related  that  Balzac  had  dined  with  him  yester- 
day, and  that  he  had  been  more  brilliant,  more  spark- 
ling than  ever.  He  very  much  amused  us  with  the  re- 
cital of  his  travels  in  Austria.  What  fire  !  What  poet- 
ical raptures  !  What  powers  of  imitation  !  It  was 
marvellous.  His  manner  of  paying  the  postillions  is  an 
invention  that  a  romancer  of  genius  alone  could  achieve. 
*  I  was  very  much  embarrassed  at  each  relay,'  said  he, 
'  aa  to  how  I  should  make  ray  payments.  I  did  not  know 
a  word  of  German.  I  did  not  know  the  money  of 
the  country.  It  was  very  difficult.  This  was  tHe 
plan  I  formed.  I  had  a  sack  filled  with  small  pieces 
of  money,  with  kreutzers.  Arrived  at  a  relay,  I 
took  my  sack ;  the  postillion  came  to  the  carriage  door. 
I  gazed  attentively  into  his  two  eyes,  and  I  put  into  his 


HONORE     DE     BALZAC.  223 

band  one  kreutzer — two  kreutzers, — then  three,  then 
four,  and  so  on  until  I  saw  him  smile.  As  soon  as  he 
smiled,  I  understood  that  I  had  given  him  a  kreutzer  too 
many. — I  quickly  took  back  my  piece,  and  my  man  was 
paid.'" 

At  the  Jardies  he  read  to  us — "  Mercadet,"  the  prim- 
itive "  Mercadet,"  but  ample,  complicated,  elaborated 
like  a  piece  arranged  with  skill  and  tact  for  the  stage. 
Balzac,  who  read  like  Tieck,  without  indicating  either 
acts  or  scenes  or  names,  affected  a  peculiar  and  perfectly 
recognizable  voice  for  each  personage  ;  the  organs  with 
which  he  endowed  the  different  species  of  creditors,  were 
of  a  comic  distinctness  and  clearness.  They  were  by  turns, 
harsh,  luscious,  hasty,  drawling,  menacing,  plaintive. 
This  yelped,  that  mewed,  this  grumbled,  that  growled, 
this  barked  in  all  tones  possible  and  impossible.  Debt 
sano-  at  first  a  solo  which  ere  long  an  immense  chorus 
accompanied.  It  came  from  the  creditors,  from  every- 
where, from  behind  the  stove,  from  under  the  bed,  from 
out  the  drawers  of  the  commode ;  the  chimney-pipe 
vomited  it  forth  ;  it  filtered  through  the  key-hole.  Some 
scaled  the  window  like  lovers,  others  darted  from  the 
depths  of  a  trunk  like  those  infernal  toys  which  take 
you  by  surprise ;  others  passed  through  the  walls  as 
throu"-h  an  English  trap-door.  It  was  a  tumultuous 
crowd,  a  racket,  an  invasion,  a  real  incoming  tide. 
Mercadet  might  shake  them  off,  still  others  returned  to 
the  assault,  and  even  in  the  horizon,  you  divined  a  dusky 
swarm  of  creditors  on  the  march,  hasting  on  like  legions 
of  white  ants  to  devour  their  prey.  We  know  not  if 
the  piece  was  better  thus,  but  never  did  representation 
produce  such  an  effect  upon  us. 

Balzac,  during  this  reading  of  Mercadet,  sat  half  re- 
clining upon  a  divan  in  the  salon  of  the  Jardies,  for  he 


224  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

had  sprained  his  ancle,  in  gliding,  like  his  walls,  over  the 
surface  of  his  estate.  Some  bit  of  hair  penetrating  the 
stuff  pricked  Balzac's  leg  and  discommoded  him.  "  The 
chintz  is  too  thin :  the  hay  comes  through  it ;  we  must 
put  on  a  thicker  cover,"  he  said,  plucking  out  the 
obstrusive  point. 

Francois,  the  Caleb  of  this  Ravenswood,  would  hear 
no  raillery  upon  the  splendors  of  the  manor. — He  looked 
reproachfully  at  his  master  and  said :  "  the  horse  hair."— 
"Has  the  upholsterer  then  deceived  me?"  replied 
Balzac.  "  They  are  all  alike.  I  ordered  him  to  put  in 
hay.     Confound  the  thief !  " 

The  magnificence  of  the  Jardies  had  slight  existence 
save  in  dreams.  All  the  friends  of  Balzac  remember 
having  written  upon  the  bare  walls  or  gray  paper 
hangings,"  "  Palissandrian  Wainscoting — Gobelins  Ta- 
pestry— Venetian  Glass — Pictures  by  Raphael." — Ger- 
ard de  Nerval  had  already  decorated  an  appartement  in 
such  a  manner,  and  this  did  not  astonish  us.  As  for 
Balzac,  he  believed  literally  in  the  gold,  the  marble  and 
the  tapestry ;  but  he  did  not  complete  the  Jardies^  and 
if  he  gives  occasion  for  laughter  at  his  chimeras,  he  at 
least  knew  how  to  build  an  eternal  domain,  a  monu- 
ment more  durable  than  brass,  an  immense  city  peopled 
with  his  creations,  and  gilded  with  the  rays  of  his  glory. 


V. 

By  an  odd  freak  of  nature,  common  alike  to  him  and 
several  of  the  most  poetic  writers  of  the  century,  such 
as  Chateaubriand,  Madame  de  Stael,  George  Sand, 
Merimde,  Janin, — Balzac  possessed  neither  the  gift  nor 
the  love  for  verse,  whatever  effort  he  made  to  attain  it. 
Upon  this  point,  his  judgment,  so  subtle,  so  profound, 
so  sagacious,  was  at  fault ;  he  admired  a  little  at  ran- 
dom, and  in  some  sort  according  to  public  notoriety. 
We  do  not  believe,  although  he  professed  a  great  respect 
for  Victor  Hugo,  that  he  was  ever  very  sensible  to  the 
lyric  qualities  of  the  poet,  whose  prose  at  the  same 
time  sculptured  and  colored,  amazed  him.  This 
author,  so  laborious,  who  re-constructed  a  phrase  as 
many  times  as  a  versifier  can  put  back  an  alexandrine 
upon  his  anvil,  deemed  metrical  labor  puerile,  finical, 
and  useless.  Verse,  with  its  fixed,  pure  form,  with  its 
elliptical  language  so  little  suited  to  multiplicity  of 
detail,  seemed  to  him  an  obstacle  designedly  invented,  a 
superfluous  difficulty  or  a  mnemonic  usage  of  primitive 
times.  His  doctrine  was  nearly  the  same  as  that  of 
Stendhal ;  "  The  idea  that  a  work  has  been  made  to  go 
hopping  and  skipping  along,  can  that  add  to  the  pleas- 
ure it  produces  ?  " 

The  romantic  school  contains  within  its  bosom  some 


226  LIFE  POflTEAITS. 

adepts,  partisans  of  absolute  truth,  who  reject  verse  as 
petty  or  unnatural.  If  Talma  said :  "  No  fine  verses  !  " 
Bayle  said :  "  No  verses  at  all ! "  This  was  really  the 
sentiment  of  Balzac,  although  to  appear  liberal,  compre- 
hensive, universal,  he  sometimes  in  society  pretended  to 
admire  poetry,  as  the  vulgar  feign  a  great  enthusiasm 
for  music,  which  profoundly  wearies  them.  All  the 
writers,  young  then,  who  attached  themselves  to  the 
literary  movement  represented  by  Victor  Hugo,  used 
like  the  master,  both  the  lyre  and  the  pen.  Alfred  de 
Vigny,  Sainte-Beuve,  Alfred  de  Musset,  spoke  equally 
well  the  language  of  the  gods  and  the  language  of  men. 
It  is  always  easy  for  poets  to  descend  to  prose.  The 
bird  can  walk  if  need  be,  but  the  lion  does  not  fly.  The 
born  prose-writers  never  rise  to  poetry,  however  poeti- 
cal they  may  be  elsewhere.  It  is  a  peculiar  gift,  that 
of  rhythmed  speech,  and  one  may  possess  it  without 
being  a  great  genius,  while  it  is  often  refused  to  supe- 
rior minds.  Among  the  most  haughty  of  those  who  ap- 
parently disdain  it,  more  than  one  even  unknown 
to  himself,  cherishes  a  secret  rancor  for  not  possess- 
ing it. 

Among  the  two  thousand  personages  of  the  "  Comedie 
Humaine,"  there  are  two  poets.  Balzac  represents 
them  both  under  traits  little  favorable.  The  one, 
Canalis,  is  a  cold  and  sterile  soul,  full  of  littleness,  an 
adroit  arranger  of  words,  a  jeweler,  who  sets  paste  in 
gilded  silver,  and  makes  necklaces  of  glass  pearls.  His 
volumes  have  multifold  blanks,  wide  margins,  broad 
intervals ;  they  contain  only  a  melodious  nothingness, 
a  monotonous  music,  fitted  to  lull  young  boarding- 
school  misses  to  sleep  or  to  make  them  dream.  Balzac, 
who  usually  warmly  espouses  the  interests  of  his  per- 
sonages, seems  to  take  a  secret  pleasure  in  ridiculing 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  227 

this  one,  and  placing  him  in  all  sorts  of  embarrassing 
situations.  He  riddles  his  vanity  with  a  thousand 
ironies  and  a  thousand  sarcasms,  and  ends  by  taking 
from  him  Modeste  Mignon  with  her  great  fortune,  to 
give  her  to  Ernest  de  la  Briere.  This  denouement,  so 
opposed  to  the  opening  of  the  story,  betrays  a  half- 
veiled  malice  and  a  subtle  mockery.  One  would  say 
that  Balzac  is  personally  happy  at  any  ill  turn  he  plays 
upon  Canalis.  He  avenges  himself  in  his  fashion,  for 
the  angels,  the  sylphs,  the  lakes,  the  swans,  the  willows, 
the  barques,  the  stars  and  the  prodigal  lyres  of  his 
poet. 

If  in  "  Canalis,"  we  have  the  false  poet,  economizing 
his  meagre  vein  and  paying  toll  to  it  that  it  may  run, 
foam  and  rave  a  few  minutes  so  as  to  simulate  a  cascade, 
the  skilful  man,  making  his  laboriously-earned  literary 
successes  subserve  his  political  ambitions,  the  positive 
being,  loving  money,  crosses,  pensions  and  honors  not- 
withstanding his  elegiac  attitudes  and  his  poses  of  an 
angel  regretting  heaven — Lucien  de  Rubempre,  shows  us 
the  idle,  frivolous,  thoughtless  poet,  fanciful  and  n-erv- 
ous  as  a  woman,  incapable  of  sustained  eifort,  without 
moral  force,  living  on  the  hooks  of  commediennes  and 
courtesans;  a  puppet,  whose  wires  designing  persons 
draw  at  will.  Notwithstanding  all  his  vices,  it  is  true, 
Lucien  fascinates  us.  Balzac  has  dowered  him  with 
wit,  beauty  and  elegance.  The  women  adore  him,  but 
he  ends  by  hanging  himself  at  the  Conciergerie. 

Here  we  have  a  little  bit  of  information  to  impart, 
which  may  amuse  the  curious.  The  few  sonnets  which 
Lucien  de  Rubempre  displays  as  samples  of  his  volume 
of  verses,  to  the  publisher  Douriat,  are  not  by  Balzac, 
who  made  no  verses,  but  demanded  those  he  required 
from  his  friends.     The  sonnet  upon  the  Daisy  is  by 


228  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

Madame  de  Girardin,  that  upon  the  Cam^lia  by  Las* 
sailly,  that  upon  the  Tulip,  by  your  humble  servant. 

Modeste  Mignon  also  contains  a  piece  of  verse,  but 
we  do  not  know  its  author. 

As  we  have  said,  Balzac  was  an  admirable  reader. 
Like  all  prose- writers  he  read  for  the  sense,  and  tried 
to  disguise  the  rhyme,  which  the  poets  when  they  de- 
claim their  verses,  accentuate  in  a  manner  insupporta- 
ble to  people  in  general,  and  ravishing  to  them  alone. 

The  great  literary  man  of  the  "  Com{jdie  Humaine  " 
is  Daniel  d'Arthez,  a  serious  writer,  a  hard  worker,  and 
for  a  long  time  before  arriving  at  fame,  immersed  in 
vast  philosophical,  historical  and  linguistic  studies. 
Balzac  was  afraid  of  facility,  and  did  not  believe  that  a 
hasty  work  could  be  good.  For  this  reason  journalism 
singularly  repelled  him,  and  he  regarded  the  time  and 
talent  consecrated  to  it  as  lost.  He  did  not  love  jour- 
nalists much  better,  and  he,  a  great  critic  himself,  de- 
spised criticism. 

Balzac  never  worked  from  a  journalistic  point  of 
view.  He  took  his  romances  to  the  reviews  and  the 
daily  papers  just  as  they  came,  without  preparing  leav- 
ing-off-places  and  interesting  traps  at  the  end  of  each 
instalment,  to  make  the  continuation  desired.  The 
story  was  cut  up  into  slices  of  nearly  equal  length,  and 
sometimes  the  description  of  an  arm-chair  begun  one 
day,  ended  the  next.  He  did  not  wish  to  divide  his 
work  into  the  little  pictures  of  the  drama  or  the  vaude- 
ville ;  he  thought  only  of  the  book.  This  method  ol 
procedure  was  often  prejudicial  to  that  immediate  suc- 
cess which  journalists  demand  from  the  authors  they 
employ.  Eugene  Sue  and  Alexandre  Dumas  often  won 
the  advantage  over  Balzac  in  those  daily  morning  con« 
tests,  which  then  excited  the  public.     His  stories  did 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  229 

not  obtain  the  immense  vogue  of  the  M}  steries  of  Paris, 
The  Wandering  Jew,  and  the  Monte-Christo.  That 
chef-d' opuvre,  "  The  Peasants,"  even  caused  a  great  loss 
of  subscribers  to  La  Presse,  in  which  its  first  part  ap- 
peared. The  editors  were  forced  to  stop  its  publication ; 
every  day,  letters  came  demanding  its  close.  People 
found  Balzac  tedious  I 

The  world  has  not  yet  fully  comprehended  the  grand 
idea  of  the  author  of  the  "  Comedie  Humaine  " — to  take 
modern  society,  and  to  make  upon  Paris  and  our  epoch 
that  book  which  unhappily,  no  ancient  civilization  has  left 
us.  The  complete  edition  of  the  "  Comedie  Humaine," 
by  collecting  all  his  scattered  works,  places  in  relief, 
the  philosophical  intention  of  the  writer.  From  this 
date,  Balzac  rose  considerably  in  public  estimation,  and 
they  at  last  ceased  to  find  him  "  The  most  fruitful  of 
our  romancers,"  a  stereotyped  phrase  which  irritated 
him  as  much  as  that  other,  "  The  author  of  Eugenie 
Grandet." 

There  were  numerous  criticisms  made  upon  Balzac ; 
he  was  spoken  of  in  many  fashions,  but  no  one  insisted 
upon  what  in  our  opinion,  is  a  very  characteristic  point; 
— that  point  is  the  absolute  modernness  of  his  genius. 
Balzac  owes  nothing  to  antiquity;  for  him,  there  are 
neither  Greeks  nor  Romans,  and  he  has  no  need  to  cry 
for  deliverance  from  them.  We  discover  in  his  talent 
no  trace  of  Homer,  or  Virgil  or  Horace,  not  even  of 
the  Viris  Illustribus ; — no  author  has  ever  been  less 
classic. 

In  art,  the  supreme  difficulty  is  to  paint  what  you 
have  before  your  eyes  ;  one  can  easily  pass  over  his  own 
time  without  perceiving  it,  and  it  is  in  this  respect  that 
so  many  eminent  intellects  have  been  at  fault. 

To  behold  one's  contemporaries  as  they  are,  to  be  of 


230  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

one's  time, — nothing  appears  more  simple,  and  nothing 
is  more  difficult !  To  wear  no  spectacles,  neither  blue 
nor  green,  to  think  with  one's  own  brain,  to  speak  in 
one's  real  tongue,  not  to  stitch  together  in  centos,  the 
phrases  of  one's  predecessors !  Balzac  possessed  this 
rare  merit.  The  centuries  have  their  perspective  and 
their  recoil ;  at  that  distance,  great  masses  disengage 
themselves ;  outlines  cease,  trifling  details  disappear ; 
by  the  aid  of  classic  souvenirs,  of  harmonious  names  of 
antiquity,  a  very  indifferent  rhetorician  may  compose  a 
tragedy,  a  poem,  a  historic  study.  But  to  find  one's 
self  in  the  crowd,  jostled  along  by  it,  to  grasp  it  in  its 
varied  aspects,  to  understand  its  currents,  to  disentangle 
its  individualities,  to  sketch  the  physiognomies  of  so 
many  diverse  beings,  to  show  the  motive-power  of  their 
actions — this  demands  an  entirely  special  genius,  and  this 
genius,  the  author  of  the  "  Com^die  Humaine,"  possessed 
to  a  degree  no  one  has  equalled,  or  probably  ever 
will  equal. 

This  profound  comprehension  of  modern  things,  we 
must  say,  rendered  Balzao  little  sensible  to  plastic  beauty. 
He  read  with  a  negligent  eye,  the  white  marble  strophes 
where  Greek  art  sang  the  perfection  of  the  human  form. 
In  the  Museum  of  Antiquities,  he  regarded  the  Venus 
de  Milo  without  great  ecstasy ;  but  the  Parisian  woman 
pausing  before  the  immortal  statue,  draped  in  her  long 
cashmere  shawl  falling  without  a  wrinkle  from  neck  to 
heel,  with  her  elegant  hat  and  its  veil  of  Chantilly  lace, 
her  perfectly  fitting  Jouvin  gloves,  the  dainty  foot  with 
its  laced  boot  just  visible  beneath  the  hem  of  the  flowing 
robe,  made  his  eyes  sparkle  with  jjleasure.  He  would 
analyze  these  coquettish  allurements  while  slowly  dis- 
cussing the  classic  graces,  and  would  find,  like  the  living 
woman  near  him,  that  the  goddess  had  a  heavy  form, 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  231 

* 

and  could  not  make  a  good  appearance  by  the  side  of 
Mesdames  de  Beaus^ant,  de  Listoraiere  or  d'Es^ard. 
The  ideal  beauty  with  its  serene  and  pure  outlines  was 
too  simple,  too  cold,  too  harmonious,  for  this  complicated, 
exuberant,  and  diverse  genius.  He  has  said  somewhere  : 
"  One  mu.st  be  Raphael  in  order  to  create  many  Virgins." 
Cluiracter  pleased  him  more  than  style^  and  he  preferred 
physiognomy  to  beauty.  In  his  portraits  of  women,  he 
never  fails  to  add  a  mark,  a  fold,  a  wrinkle,  a  red  patch, 
a  pitiful  weary  angle,  a  vein  too  apparent,  some  detail 
indicating  the  bruises  of  life,  which  a  poet,  tracing  the 
same  image,  would  most  certainly  suppress,  but  wrongly, 
without  doubt. 

We  have  no  intention  of  criticising  Balzac  for  this 
defect  which  is  his  principal  good  quality.  He  accepts 
nothing  from  the  mythologies  and  traditions  of  the  past ; 
he  does  not  know,  happily  for  us,  that  ideal  created  by 
the  verses  of  the  poets,  the  marbles  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
the  pictures  of  the  Renaissance,  which  intrudes  itr^elf 
between  the  eyes  of  the  artist  and  the  reality.  He  loves 
the  woman  of  our  day  as  she  is,  and  not  a  pale  statue; 
he  loves  her  in  hep  virtues,  in  her  faults,  in  her  fantasies, 
in  her  shawls,  in  her  robes,  in  her  hats ;  and  he  follows 
her  through  life  far  beyond  that  point  in  the  route  where 
1  ov  e  leaves  her.  He  prolongs  her  youth  by  many  seasons, 
ho  creates  her  sx)rings  from  the  summers  of  Saint-Martin, 
and  he  gilds  their  setting  with  the  most  gorgeous  rays. 

We  are  so  classic  in  France,  that  after  two  thousand 
years  we  have  failed  to  perceive  that  in  our  climate 
roses  do  not  flourish  in  April,  as  in  the  descriptions  of 
the  ancient  poets,  but  in  June ;  and  that  our  women 
begin  to  be  beautiful  at  an  age  when  those  of  Greece, 
the  most  precocious  of  all,  ceased  to  be  so.  How  many 
charming  types  Balzac  has  imagined  or  reproduced, — 


232  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

» 

grand  ladies  a  plenty,  not  to   count  the  bourgeoises^  the 
grisette'fe  and  the  Dames  aux  Camelias  of  his  demi-monde. 

And  how  he  loved  and  knew  this  modern  Paris,  whoso 
beauties  in  that  time  the  amateurs  of  local  and  pictur- 
esque color  so  little  appreciated !  He  wandered  over  it 
in  every  sense,  by  night  and  by  day ;  there  was  not  a 
dilapidated  alley,  an  infected  passage,  a  narrow  street, 
muddy  and  dark,  which  under  his  pen  did  not  become 
an  etching  worthy  of  Rembrandt,  full  of  thronging  and 
mysterious  shadows,  where  glows  one  palpitating  ray 
of  light.  Riches  and  misery,  pleasure  and  suffering, 
shame  and  glory,  grace  and  deformity, — he  knew  all  of  his 
cherished  city.  It  was  to  him  a  monster,  enormous,  hy- 
brid, formidable,  a  polypus  with  a  hundred  thousand  arms, 
which  he  heard,  saw,  and  regarded  as  living,  and  which 
formed,  as  it  were,  in  his  eyes,  an  immense  individuality. 
Apropos  of  this,  see  the  wonderful  pages  placed  at  the 
beginning  of  "  The  Girl  with  the  Golden  Eyes,"  in 
which  Balzac,  encroaching  ujDon  the  art  of  the  musician, 
has  sought,  as  in  a  symphony  to  a  graud  orchestra,  to 
make  sound  in  unison  all  the  voices,  all  the  sobbings,  all 
the  cries,  all  the  rumors,  all  the  gnashings  of  the  teeth, 
of  Paris  in  travail. 

From  this  modernness  upon  which  we  dwell  design- 
edly, although  Balzac  did  not  suspect  it,  proceeded  the 
difficulty  which  he  experienced  in  the  accomplishment 
of  his  work ;  the  French  language,  refined  by  the  classics 
of  tlie  sixteenth  century,  is  not  suited  to  the  rendering 
of  general  ideas  or  to  the  depicting  of  conventional 
figures  amid  vague  surroundings.  To  express  that 
multiplicity  of  details,  of  characters,  of  types,  of  archi- 
tectures, of  furnitures,  Balzac  was  obliged  to  coin  an 
especial  language,  composed  of  all  the  technologies,  of 
all  the  slang  of  the  terms  of  science,  of  the  jargon  of  the 


HONORE   BE   BALZAC.  233 

shop,  the  coulisses,  of  even  the  amphitheatre.  Whatever 
word  expressed  anything  was  welcome,  and  the  phrase,  in 
order  to  receive  it,  opened  an  incision,  a  parenthesis, 
and  complaisantly  elongated  itself.  It  is  this  which 
has  made  superficial  critics  say  that  Balzac  did  not  know 
how  to  write.  He  had,  although  he  did  not  believe  it,  a 
style,  and  a  very  fine  style — the  necessary,  inevitable 
and  mathematical  style  of  his  idea  I 


VI. 

It  is  impossible  to  write  a  complete  biography  of  Balzac ; 
intercourse  with  him  was  necessarily  interrupted  by 
chasms,  absences,  disappearances.  Work  absolutely 
commanded  the  life  of  this  man,  and  if,  as  he  said  him- 
self with  an  accent  of  touching  sensibility  in  a  letter  to 
his  sister,  he  had  sacrificed  without  pain,  to  that  jealous 
god,  the  joys  and  recreations  of  life,  it  had  cost  him 
dear  to  renounce  the  delights  of  its  friendship.  He 
was  the  slave  of  his  work,  and  the  voluntary  slave. 
With  a  very  good  and  a  very  tender  heart,  he  had  the 
egotism  of  great  workers.  And  who  would  have  dreamed 
of  chiding  his  apparent  negligence  and  forgetfulness» 
when  beholding  the  result  of  liis  flights  and  his  seclu- 
sions? When,  the  work  finished,  he  appeared,  you 
would  have  said  that  he  had  quitted  you  yesterday ;  he 
would  resume  the  conversation,  as  if,  sometimes,  six 
months  or  more  had  -not  fled  since  its  interruption. 

He  made  journeys  in  France  to  study  the  localities 
of  his  provincial  scenes,  and  he  withdrew  fi-om  his 
friends  into  Tourraine  or  into  the  Charente,  finding 
there  a  repose  that  his  creditors  did  not  always  allow  him 
in  Paris.  After  some  great  work,  he  would  occasionally 
allow  himself  a  broader  excursion  in  Germany,  in  upper 
Italy  or  Switzerland ;   but   these  tours,  made  rapidly. 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  235 

with  anxieties  in  regard  to  the  falling  due  of  bills  pay- 
al)le,  of  agreements  to  fulfil,  and  with  a  viaticum  nar- 
row enough,  perhaps  fatigued  more  than  rested  him. 

His  clairvoyant  eye  drank  in  the  skies,  the  horizons,  the 
mountains,  the  landscapes,  the  monuments,  the  houses, 
the  interiors,  to  confide  them  to  that  universal  and  min- 
ute memory  which  never  failed  him.  Superior  in  this 
to  the  descriptive  poets,  Balzac  saw  men  and  nature  at 
the  very  same  time ;  he  studied  the  physiognomies,  the 
manners,  the  characters,  the  passions,  with  the  same 
glance  as  the  sites,  the  costumes  and  the  furniture.  A 
detail  satisfied  him  as  the  least  fragment  of  bone  suffices 
Cuvier  to  imagine  and  reconstitute  a  visible  and  tangi- 
ble personality. 

He  had  often  observed  in  himself  the  numerous  types 
that  live  in  his  books.  It  is  for  this  reason  they  are  so 
complete.  But  no  one  can  absolutely  follow  the  life  of 
an  author ;  he  has  motives  which  remain  obscure,  un- 
known, details  of  actions  whose  trace  you  lose.  In 
even  the  most  faithful  portrait,  a  part  must  be  pure 
creation.  Balzac  has  created  far  more  than  he  has 
seen.  His  rare  faculties  as  physiologist  and  anatomist 
have  only  ministered  to  the  poet  within  him. 

The  truth  of  art  is  not  the  truth  of  nature ;  every 
object  reproduced  by  art,  must  needs  be  in  part  con- 
ventional ;  though  this  part  be  made  small  as  possible, 
it  still  exists,  in  painting  as  in  perspective,  in  literature 
as  in  language.  Balzac  doubtless  is  true,  but  it  is  with 
the  augmentations  and  the  sacrifices  of  art.  He  pre- 
pares sombre  depths  and  bituminous  paths  for  his 
luminous  figures,  he  places  light  backgrounds  against 
his  dusky  figures.  Like  Rembrandt,  he  sets  its  appro- 
priate spangle  of  light  on  the  brow  or  nose  of  his  per- 
sonage; .sometimes  without  mentioning' it,  he  places  a 


236  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

microscope  under  the  reader's  eye.  "Where  a  •writer  of 
less  genius  would  have  created  a  portrait,  Balzac  has 
created  a  real  form.  Men  have  not  so  many  muscles  as 
Michael  Angelo  endows  them  with,  to  give  an  idea  of 
force.  Balzac  is  full  of  these  useful  exaggerations, 
these  dusky  outlines  which  sustain  and  accentuate  the 
contour.  While  he  copies,  he  imagines  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  masters,  imprinting  his  own  touch  upon 
everything.  Balzac,  whom  the  realistic  school  seems  to 
wish  to  claim  as  a  master,  has  no  connection  with  it,  no 
inclination  for  it. 

Unlike  certain  illustrious  literary  men  who  nourish 
themselves  upon  their  own  genius,  Balzac  read  a  great 
deal,  and  with  prodigious  rapidity.  He  loved  books, 
and  he  had  collected  a  fine  library.  In  a  few  days,  he 
absorbed  the  voluminous  works  of  Swedenborg,  which 
were  owned  by  Madame  Balzac  mere^  who  was  a  great 
deal  pre-occupied  with  mysticism  at  that  time ;  and  to 
this  reading  we  owe  the  "  Seraphita-Seraphitus,"  one  of 
the  most  astonishing  productions  of  modern  literature. 
Never  did  Balzac  so  nearly  approach  or  grasp  the  ideal 
beauty  as  in  this  book,  that  mountain  ascension  to 
something  ethereal,  supernatural,  luminous,  which  lifts 
us  above  this  earth.  The  two  only  colors  employed  are 
celestial  blue  and  snow-white,  with  some  nacreous  tints 
for  shadows.  We  know  of  nothing  more  transporting 
than  this  effort.  The  panorama  of  Norway  detached 
from  its  borders  and  seen  from  that  height,  dazzles  and 
infatuates  us. 

"  Louis  Lambert "  is  also  influenced  by  this  reading 
of  Swedenborg ;  but  soon  Balzac,  who  had  borrowed 
these  eagle  pinions  of  the  mystics  to  sail  into  the  in- 
finite, redescended  to  our  earth,  although  his  vigorous 
lungs  could  respire  for  any  length  of  time,  that  subtile 


HOXORE    DE    BALZAC.  237 

air  fatal  to  feebler  mortals.  Perhaps  his  fine  genius 
would  all  too  soon  have  passed  beyond  our  sight,  had 
he  continued  to  soar  toward  those  unfathomed  immensi- 
ties of  metaphysics,  and  we  ought  to  consider  it  a  for- 
tunate thing,  that  he  contented  himself  with  "  Louis 
Lambert "  and  the  "  Scraphita-Suraphitus,"  which  in  the 
"  Human  Comedy  "  sufficiently  represent  the  superna- 
tural side,  and  open  a  gate,  as  wide  as  we  could  desire, 
into  the  invisible  world. 

Let  us  pass  now  to  some  particular  details.  The 
great  Goethe  held  three  things  in  horror, — one  of  these 
things  was  tobacco-smoke ;  we  refrain  from  telling  the 
two  others.  Balzac,  like  the  German  Jupiter  Olympus, 
could  not  endure  tobacco  in  any  form  whatever;  he 
anathematized  the  pipe,  and  proscribed  the  cigar.  He 
would  not  even  allow  the  light  Spanish  papelito  ;  the 
Asiatic  narguilhS  alone  found  grace  in  his  eyes.  In 
his  philippics  against  the  Nicotian  weed,  he  did  not 
imitate  that  doctor  who,  during  a  dissertation  upon  the 
absurdity  of  using  tobacco,  kept  taking  ample  pinches 
from  a  large  snuff-box  placed  near  him.  He  never 
smoked.  His  "  Theory  of  Stimulants  '*  contains  a  formal 
plea  against  tobacco,  and  no  doubt,  if  he  had  been 
sultan,  like  Amurath,  he  would  have  cut  off  the  heads 
of  wicked  and  obstinate  smokers.  He  reserved  all  his 
predilections  for  coffee,  which  did  him  great  harm,  and 
perhaps  killed  him,  although  he  was  organized  to  live 
a  century. 

Was  Balzac  right  or  wrong  ?  Is  tobacco,  as  he  pre- 
tended, a  deadly  poison,  and  doe§  it  intoxicate  those  it 
does  not  stupify  ?  Is  it  the  opium  of  the  Occident,  the 
cajoler  of  the  will  and  the  intelligence?  This  is  a 
question  we  know  not  how  to  answer;  but  we  may 
cite  here  the  names  of  some  celebrated  personages  of 


238  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

this  century,  some  of  whom  smoked  while  others  did 
not  Goethe  and  Heinrich  Heine,  singularly  abste- 
mious for  Germans,  did  not  smoke;  Byron  smoked; 
Victor  Hugo  does  not  smoke,  neither  did  Alexandre 
Dumas  'pere,.  On  the  other  hand,  Alfred  de  Musset, 
Eugene  Sue,  George  Sand,  Prosper,  Merimee,  Paul  de 
Saint  Victor,  Emile  Agier,  have  smoked  and  do  smoke ; 
and  yet  without  being  exactly  imbecile. 

Nevertheless,  this  aversion  is  common  to  almost  all 
the  men  born  with  the  century  or  a  little  before  it. 
Sailors  and  soldiers  only  smoked  at  that  time ;  at  the 
odor  of  the  pipe  or  the  cigar,  women  would  faint  away; 
they  have  become  very  well  used  to  it  since  then,  and 
more  than  one  rosy  lip  presses  lovingly  the  gilded  end 
of  a  'pnro^  in  the  boudoir  transformed  into  a  smoldug- 
roora.  Dowagers  and  turbaned  mothers  alone  have 
preserved  their  old  antipathy,  and  stoically  see  their 
contumacious  salons  deserted  by  the  young. 

"Whenever  Balzac  is  obliged  for  the  truth  of  the 
recital  to  allow  one  of  his  personages  to  addict  himself 
to  this  horrible  habit,  his  brief  and  disdainful  phrase 
betrays  the  guilty  secret :  "  As  for  de  Marsay,"  he  says 
*'  he  was  engaged  in  smoking  his  cigar."  And  to  allow 
him  to  smoke  at  all  in  his  work,  is  a  concession  Bakac 
must  needs  make  to  dandyism. 

A  woman,  delicate  and  fastidious,  had  no  doubt  im- 
pressed Balzac  with  this  aversion.  This  is  a  point  we 
know  not  how  to  solve.  Here  we  cannot  gain  a  sou 
for  our  pains.  Balzac  must  have  known  women,  in 
order  to  paint  them  so  w^ell.  In  one  of  the  letters  he 
wrote  to  his  sister,  Madame  de  Surville,  Balzac,  then 
young  and  entirely  ignorant,  states  the  ideal  of  his  life 
in  two  words ;  "  To  be  celebrated  and  to  be  loved." 
The  first  part  of  this  programme,  marked  out  by  all 


HONORB  DE  BALZAC.  239 

artists,  was  realized  beyond  his  dreams.  Did  the  second 
receive  its  fulfilment?  The  opinion  of  the  most  inti- 
mate friends  of  Balzac,  is  that  he  cherished  only  Platonic 
loves;  but  Madame  de  Surville  smiles  at  this  idea; 
it  is  a  smile  full  of  feminine  finesse  and  modest  reti- 
cence. She  pretends  that  her  brother  possessed  a  dis- 
cretion which  was  proof  against  anything,  and  that  if 
ho  had  wished  to  speak,  he  would  have  had  a  great 
many  things  to  say.  This  may  be,  and  no  doubt  Bal- 
zac's casket  contained  more  notes  in  irregular,  delicate 
writing,  than  the  gilded  box  of  his  "  Canalis." 

There  is,  as  it  were,  in  his  works  an  odor  difemina; 
when  you  ente-r  them,  you  hear  through  the  secret 
doors  behind  the  staircase,  the  rustle  of  silk  and  the 
creaking  of  little  boots.  In  the  course  of  our  intimacy, 
which  endured  from  1836  to  his  death,  Balzac  only 
once  alluded  in  the  most  respectful  and  tender  terms, 
to  an  attachment  of  his  early  youth ;  and  still,  he  would 
confide  to  us  only  the  first  name  of  the  person,  whose 
remembrance  after  so  many  years,  made  his  eyes  grow 
moist.  If  he  had  told  us  more,  we  certainly  should  not 
abuse  his  confidence, — the  genius  of  a  great  writer 
belongs  to  all  the  world,  but  his  heart  is  his  own.  We 
touch  lightly  in  passing  this  tender  and  delicate  side  of 
Balzac's  life,  because  we  have  nothing  to  say  which 
does  not  do  him  honor.  This  reserve  and  this  mystery, 
are  those  of  a  gallant  man.  If  he  was  loved  as  he 
wished  to  be  in  the  dreams  of  his  youth,  the  world 
knows  nothing  of  it. 

Do  not  imagine  from  this  that  Balzac  was  austere 
and  prudish  in  his  speech.  The  author  of  the  "  Fantas* 
tic  Tales  "  was  too  much  nourished  by  Rabelais,  toe 
much  of  a  Pantagruelist,  not  to  know  how  to  laugh. 
He  knew  good  stories  and  he  invented  them ;  his  funny 


240  LIFE    POKTRAITS. 

recitals  interlarded  with  Gallic  crudities,  would  have 
made  fastidious  cant  cry  "  shocking  !  "  but  his  laughing, 
babbling  lips  were  sealed  like  the  tomb,  when  others 
je-sted  upon  a  serious  sentiment.  Scarce  did  he  let  his 
dearest  friends  divine  his  love  for  a  foreign  lady  of 
distinction,  a  love  of  which  we  may  speak,  since  it  was 
crowned  by  marriage.  It  is  to  this  passion,  cherished 
for  a  long  time,  to  which  we  may  impute  those  distant 
excursions,  whose  motive  to  the  last  remained  a  mystery 
to  his  friends. 

Absorbed  in  his  work,  Balzac  did  not  decide  until 
rather  late,  to  turn  his  attention  to  the  drama,  for  which 
common  opiaion,  wrongly  we  think,  judged  that  he 
was  not  fitted.  True,  some  chance  essays  early  made, 
had  not  proved  successful ;  but  he  who  had  created  so 
many  types,  analyzed  so  many  characters,  set  in  motion 
so  many  personages,  must  have  succeeded  in  dramatic 
composition.  As  we  have  said,  Balzac  could  not  per- 
fect his  work  at  once,  and  one  cannot  correct  the  proofs 
of  a  play.  If  he  had  lived,  at  the  end  of  a  dozen  pieces, 
he  would  assuredly  have  found  his  form,  and  have 
attained  success.  Although  the  "  Cruel  Step-Mother," 
played  at  the  Theatre-Historique,  was  not  a  chef-df  oeuvre 
his  "  Mercadet"  slightly  clipped  by  an  intelligent  ar- 
ranger, obtained  a  long  posthumous  vogue  at  the  Gym- 
nasium. 

Nevertheless,  his  impelling  motive  in  these  attempts 
was  a  large  reward  which  at  a  single  stroke  might  free 
him  from  financial  enbarrassment,  rather  than  a  real 
vocation.  The  play,  we  know,  yields  far  more  than  the 
book ;  the  continuity  of  the  representations,  upon  which 
a  large  enough  claim  is  levied,  speedily  produces  con- 
siderable sums.  If  the  labor  of  combination  is  greater, 
the  material  work  is  less.     It  requires  several  dramas  to 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  241 

fill  a  volume,  and  while  you  are  taking  a  walk,  or  rest- 
ing nonchalantly  with  your  feet  ^n  your  slippers,  the 
balustrades  are  lighted,  the  decorations  descend  from 
the  friezes,  the  actors  declaim  and  gesticulate,  and  you 
find  that  you  have  gained  more  money  than  in  scrawling 
a  whole  week  painfully  bent  over  your  desk.  Such  a 
melo-drama  has  been  worth  more  to  its  author  than  tlie 
"  Notre  Dame  de  Paris "  of  Victor  Hugo,  and  "  The 
Poor  Relations  "  of  Balzac. 

It  is  a  singular  fact  that  Balzac,  who  meditated, 
elaborated  and  corrected  his  romances  with  such  obsti- 
nate and  scrupulous  care,  seemed,  when  a  play  was  in 
question,  to  be  possessed  of  some  demon  of  haste, 
almost  grudging  the  time  bestowed  upon  such  work,  ox 

perhaps  impatient  for  the  remuneration. 

II 


VII. 

At  the  beginniDg  of  this  study,  we  recounted  the  in- 
clinations toward  dandyism  manifested  by  Balzac ;  we 
have  told  of  his  blue  coat  with  buttons  of  solid  gold,  of 
his  monstrous  cane  surmounted  by  a  head  of  turquoises, 
of  his  apparitions  into  society  and  into  that  infernal  club 
of  ours  ;  but  this  magnificence  was  only  temporary,  and 
Balzac  recognized  the  fact  that  he  was  not  fitted  to  play 
the  role  of  Alcibiades  or  Beau  Brummel.  Each  of  his 
friends  can  recount,  how  he  would  run,  usually  of  a 
morning,  to  his  publishers  with  copy  and  for  proofs, 
in  an  infinitely  less  splendid  costume.  We  recall  the' 
green  hunting-vest  with  copper  buttons,  representing 
foxes'  heads,  the  black-and-gray  checked  pantaloons, 
extending  to  the  feet  and  thrust  into  the  huge  tied 
shoes,  the  red  silk  handkerchief  twisted  in  a  cord 
around  the  neck,  and  the  hat,  at  the  same  time  shaggy 
and  smooth,  its  blue  lining  faded  by  perspiration,  which 
covered  rather  than  clothed  the  most  "  fruitful  of  our 
romancers."  But  despite  the  poverty  and  disorder  of 
his  garb,  no  one  would  have  dreamed  of  taking  him  for 
one  of  the  unknown,  vulgar  throng,  this  great  man  with 
the  eyes  of  flame,  the  mobile  nostrils,  the  cheeks  im- 
pressed with  violent  colors,  the  whole  face  illumined  by 
genius, — this  man  who    Dassed,  borne  onward  by  his 


UOJfORE    DE     BALZAC.  243 

dream  as  by  a  whirlwind  !  At  sight  of  him,  raillery  died 
away  from  the  lips  of  the  gamin,  and  the  serious  man 
did  not  yield  to  his  first  impulse  to  smile.  All  divined 
that  this  was  one  of  the  kings  of  thought. 

Sometimes,  on  the  contrary,  we  saw  him  walking  very 
slowly,  his  nose  in  the  air,  his  eyes  in  quest  of  something. 
Passing  down  one  side  of  the  street,  then  examining  the 
other,  and  not  gaping  into  the  air,  but  at  the  signs!  He 
was  seeking  for  names  with  which  to  baptize  his  charac- 
ters. He  pretended,  and  with  right,  that  a  name  does 
not  create  itself  any  more  than  a  word.  According  to 
him,  names  are  formed  by  themselves  like  languages; 
real  names  possess  besides,  a  life,  a  significance,  a  vitality, 
a  cabalistic  power,  and  we  cannot  attach  too  much  im- 
portance to  their  choice.  Leon  Gozlan,  in  his  "  Balzac 
in  Slippers,"  has  related  in  a  charming  fashion,  how  he 
found  the  famous  "  Z.  Marcas  "  of  the  Revue  Parisienne. 
The  sign  of  a  chimnej^-doctor,  furnished  the  name  for  a 
long  time  sought  from  Gubetta  to  Victor  Hugo,  who  is 
no  less  careful  than  Balzac,  in  the  appellations  of  his 
characters. 

This  rough  life  of  nocturnal  labor,  had,  notwithstand- 
ing his  vigorous  constitution,  imprinted  its  traces  upon 
Balzac's  face,  and  we  find  in  "  Albert  Savarus  "  a  por- 
trait, drawn  by  himself,  which  represents  him  as  he 
was  at  this  time  (1842)  with  but  slight  deviation  : 

"  A  superb  head ;  black  hair  already  mixed  with  a 
few  white  threads;  such  hair  as  Saint  Peter  and  Saint 
Paul  have  in  pictures,  with  thick  and  glossy  curls, — hair 
coarse  as  horse  hair ;  a  neck  white  and  round,  a  magnifi- 
cent forehead,  parted  by  that  deep  furrow  which  grand 
projects,  high  thoughts,  deej)  meditations,  inscribe  upon 
the  foreheads  of  great  men  ;  an  olive  complexion  marbled 
with  red.  spots,  a  flat  nose,  eyes  of  fire,  thin,  hollow 


244  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

cheeks,  marked  by  two  long  furrows  full  of  suffering,  a 
mouth  inclined  to  smile,  and  a  small  chin,  delicate  and 
too  short;  crows'-feet  at  the  temples,  hollow  eyes 
revolving  under  arched  brows  like  two  burning  globes  ; — 
but,  despite  all  these  indications  of  violent  passion,  an 
air  placid  and  deeply  resigned,  a  voice  penetrating  in  its 
sweetness,  and  surprising  you  by  its  facility ;  the  true 
voice  of  the  orator,  now  pure  and  subtle,  now  insinua- 
ting, thundering  when  needful,  now  sarcastic,  then  in- 
cisive, M.  Albert  Savarus  is  of  middle  height,  neither 
fat  nor  lean ;  he  has  the  hands  of  a  prelate." 

In  this  portrait,  otherwise  very  faithful,  Balzao 
idealizes  himself  a  little  for  the  exigencies  of  the  romance, 
and  divests  himself  of  some  kilogrammes  of  embonpoint, 
a  license  well  permitted  to  a  hero  loved  by  the  Duchess 
d'Argalio,  and  by  Mademoiselle  de  Watteville.  This 
romance  of  "  Albert  Savarus,"  one  of  the  least  known 
and  the  least  quoted  of  Balzac,  contains  many  trans- 
posed details  upon  his  habits  of  life  and  labor ;  we  might 
even  see  here,  if  we  were  permitted  to  lift  the  veil,  confi- 
dences of  another  kind. 

Balzac  had  left  the  Rue  de  Batailles  for  the  Jardies ; 
he  then  went  to  live  in  Passy.  The  house  where  he 
dwelt,  situated  upon  an  abrupt  declivity,  presented  an 
architectural  arrangement  singular  enough.  We  entered 
here 

Un  peu  comme  le  vin  entre  dans  les  houteilles. 

You  had  to  descend  three  stories  in  order  to  arrive  at 
the  first.  The  miain  door  from  the  side  of  the  street, 
opened  almost  into  the  roof,  as  into  a  garret.  We 
dined  here  once  with  L.  G.  It  was  a  strange  dinner, 
composed  after  economical  recipes  invented  by  Balzac. 
At  our  express  entreaty,  the  famous  soup  of  Icntillesand 
onions,  endowed  with  so  many  hygienic  and  symbolic 


nONORE     DE     BALZAC.  245 

virtues,  and  of  which  Lessailly  had  been  obliged  to  eat 
to  repletion,  did  not  appear.  But  the  wines  were 
marvellous !  Each  bottle  had  its  history,  and  Balzac 
recounted  it  with  an  eloquence,  a  poetic  fire,  a  convic- 
tion, never  before  equalled.  This  Bordeaux  wine  had 
three  times  made  the  circuit  of  the  globe;  this  Chateau- 
neuf  of  the  Pope  dated  back  to  fabulous  epochs ;  this 
rum  had  come  from  a  cask  more  than  a  century  ago 
cast  up  by  the  sea,  and  it  had  been  necessary  to  break 
it  open  with  blows  of  the  axe,  so  thick  a  crust  had 
been  formed  around  it  by  shell  fish,  madrexjores  and  sea- 
weed. "We,  pale,  surprised,  aghast  at  these  acid  flavors, 
protested  in  vain  against  such  illustrious  origins.  Balzac 
retained  the  gravity  of  a  soothsayer ;  and  despite  the 
proverb,  although  we  kept  our  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  we 
did  not  make  him  laugh ! 

At  the  dessert  figured  pears  of  a  maturity,  a  size,  a 
lusciousness  and  a  rarity,  that  might  have  done  honor 
to  a  royal  table.  Balzac  devoured  five  or  six  of  them ; 
he  believed  that  these  fruits  were  healthful  to  him,  and 
he  ate  them  in  such  quantity  as  much  for  hygiene  as 
for  their  luscious  flavor.  He  was  already  suffering 
from  the  first  attacks  of  the  malady  that  was  to  carry 
him  off.  Death,  with  his  bony  fingers  was  groping  at 
that  robust  body  so  as  to  learn  where  to  attack  it,  and 
finding  no  other  weakness,  it  was  going  to  kill  him  with 
plethora  and  hypertrophy.  Balzac's  cheeks  were  al- 
ways marked  with  those  red  spots  which  simulate  health 
to  inattentive  eyes ;  to  the  close  observer,  sallow,  hepatic 
tints,  with  their  golden  aureole,  surrounded  the  weary 
eyelids  ;  but  the  glance,  enlivened  by  this  warm  bistre 
tone,  appeared  only  the  more  vivacious,  the  more 
sparkling,  and  deceived  the  anxious. 

At  this  moment,  Balzac  was  very  ra  ich  interested  in 


246  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

the  occult  sciences,  in  cliiromancy  and  cartomancy. 
They  had  told  him  of  a  sibyl  even  more  astonishing  than 
IMademoiselle  Lenormand,  and  he  resolved  that  Madame 
de  Girardin,  M6vj  and  ourself  should  go  to  consult 
her.  The  pythoness  abode  at  Anteuil,  we  do  not  recol- 
lect in  what  street,  that  is  of  little  import  to  our  story, 
for  the  address  given  was  false.  We  fell  into  the  midst 
of  a  family  of  honest  citizens  sojourning  there  for  the 
summer  ;  the  husband,  the  wife,  and  an  old  mother,  in 
whom  Balzac  obstinately  insisted  there  was  a  cabalistic 
air.  The  good,  ancient  dame  little  flattered  in  being 
taken  for  a  sorceress,  began  to  be  angry ;  the  husband 
took  us  for  swindlers  or  pickpockets ;  tlie  young  wife 
burst  into  peals  of  laughter,  and  the  maid-servant 
prudently  hastened  to  lock  up  the  silver  plate.  We 
had  to  beat  an  ignominious  retreat,  but  Balzac  insisted 
that  this  really  was  the  place,  and  he  re-entered  the 
carriage,  muttering  maledictions  upon  the  old  woman  in 
all  the  odd,  whimsical  terms  his  acquaintance  with  the 
litanies  of  Rabelais  could  suggest. 

We  said :  "  If  she  is  a  sorceress,  she  conceals  well 
her  game."  We  attempted  some  other  researches, 
always  fruitless,  and  Delphine  pretended  that  Balzac 
had  fabricated  all  this  for  the  sake  of  a  carriage  drive  to 
Anteuil,  and  to  procure  agreeable  travelling  companions. 
But  we  must  believe  that  Balzac  did  have  a  solitary 
interview  with  this  Madame  Fontaine  whom  we  sought 
together.  Did  he  consult  her  seriously  ?  Did  he  go  as 
a  simple  observer?  Several  passages  of  the  "  Comedie 
Humaine  "  seem  to  imply  in  Balzac  a  sort  of  faith  in  the 
occult  sciences  upon  which  official  science  had  not  as  yet 
pronounced  its  decisive  verdict. 

About  this  time  Balzac  began  to  manifest  some  taste 
for  old  furniture,  chests,  pottery ;  the  least  bit  of  worm- 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  247 

eaten  Avood  that  he  bought  in  the  Rue  de  Lappe,  had 
always  an  illustrious  lineage,  and  he  created  genealogies 
suited  to  his  least  purchases.  He  hid  them  here  and 
there,  always  by  reason  of  those  fantastic  creditors 
whose  existence  we  began  to  doubt.  We  even  amused 
ourselves  in  spreading  a  report  that  Balzac  was  a 
millionaire,  that  like  Aboul-Casem  he  had  three  cis- 
terns filled  to  the  brim  with  carbuncles,  dinars  and 
omars.  "  They  will  cut  my  throat  with  this  nonsense," 
said  Balzac,  protesting,  and  yet  charmed. 

What  gave  some  sort  of  probability  to  our  banterings, 
was  the  new  abode  in  which  Balzac  dwelt,  Rue  For- 
tunee,  in  the  Beaujou  quarter,  less  populous  then  than 
it  is  to-day.  Here  he  occupied  a  small,  mysterious  house, 
which  would  have  suited  the  fancy  of  an  ostentatious 
financier.  Outside,  you  perceived  above  the  wall  a 
sort  of  cujDola,  relieved  by  the  arched  ceiling  of  a 
boudoir,  and  the  refreshing  j)icture  of  closed  shutters. 

When  you  penetrated  into  this  retreat,  which  was  not 
easy,  for  the  master  of  the  lodge  concealed  himself  with 
extreme  care,  you  discovered  a  thousand  details  of 
comfort  and  luxury  in  contradiction  to  the  poverty  he 
affected.  He  nevertheless  received  us  one  day,  and  we 
saw  a  dining-hall  finished  in  old  oak,  with  a  table,  a 
fire-place,  buifets,  cupboards  and  chairs  of  carved  wood, 
all  of  which  would  have  delighted  the  heart  of  an  an- 
tiquarian. There  was  also  a  salon  of  damask  and 
gold,  with  doors,  cornices,  plinths  and  embrasures 
of  ebony ;  a  library  arranged  with  book-cases  incrusted 
by  tortoise-shell  and  copper  ;  a  bathing-hall  in  yellow 
breccia  with  stucco  bas-reliefs ;  a  boudoir  whose  ancient 
paintings  had  been  restored  by  Edmund  Hedouin ;  a 
gallery  lighted  from  above,  where  later  we  recognized 
the  collection  of  Cousin  Pons.     There  were  upon    the 


248  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

etageres  all  sorts  of  curiosities,  porcelains  of  Saxony 
and  Sevres,  ink-horns  of  sea-green  malachite,  and  upon 
the  staircase  covered  by  a  carpet,  great  china  vases  and  a 
magnificent  chandelier  suspended  by  a  red  silk  cord. 

"  Have  you  then  exhausted  one  of  the  pits  of  Aboul- 
Casem?"  said  we  laughing,  to  Balzac,  as  we  gazed 
upon  these  splendors.  "  We  well  see  that  you  were 
right  in  pretending  to  be  a  millionaire." 

"  I  am  poorer  than  ever,"  replied  he  assuming  a  meek 
and  hypocritical  air ;  "  nothing  of  all  this  is  mine.  I 
have  furnished  the  house  for  a  friend  whom  I  expect. — 
I  am  only  the  guardian  and  doorkeeper  of  the  hotel." 

We  quote  his  exact  words.  He  made  this  reply  to 
several  other  persons,  all  of  whom  were  astonished  as 
ourself.  The  mystery  was  soon  explained  by  the  mar- 
riage of  Balzac  to  the  woman  he  had  long  loved.  On 
the  18th  of  August,  1850,  Balzac  married  a  charming 
woman,  the  Countess  Eve  de  Hanska.  He  died  four 
months  after. 

There  is  a  Turkish  proverb  which  says  ;  "  When  the 
house  is  finished,  death  enters."  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  the  sultans  always  have  a  palace  in  process  of 
construction,  which  they  take  care  shall  not  be  finished. 
Life  seems  to  wish  nothing  complete — but  misfortune. 
Nothing'  is  so  much  to  be  dreaded  as  a   wish  realized. 

The  haunting  debts  had  at  last  been  paid,  the  dreamed 
of  union  accomplished,  the  nest  for  happiness  built  and 
lined  with  down.  As  if  they  had  a  presentiment  of  his 
approaching  end,  those  who  had  envied  Balzac  began  to 
praise  him.  "  The  Poor  Relatives  "  and  "  Cousin  Pos," 
where  the  genius  of  the  author  glows  in  its  full  splendor, 
rallied  the  suffrages  of  all.  Life  was  too  beautiful,  and 
nothing  remained  but  to  die. 

His  malady  made  rapid  progress,  but  no  one  appre- 


HONORE    DE    BALZAC.  249 

heiided  a  fatal  denouement ;  all  had  so  much  confidence 
in  the  athletic  organization  of  Balzac.  We  firmly 
believed  that  he  would  live  to  bury  us  all. 

We  were  going  to  travel  in  Italy,  and  before  leading, 
we  wished  to  bid  adieu  to  our  illustrious  friend.  He 
had  driven  out  in  a  caleche,  to  bring  some  foreign  ca- 
riosity from  the  custom-house,  so  a  servant  told  us.  We 
left  reassured,  but  at  the  moment  we  were  stepping  into 
the  carriage,  a  note  was  handed  us  from  Madame  de 
Balzac,  which  explained  to  us  obligingly,  and  with 
polite  regrets,  the  reason  why  we  had  not  found  her 
husband  at  home.  At  the  end  of  the  letter,  Balzac 
had  traced  these  words  ; 

"  I  can  no  longer  read  or  write. 

"BALZAC." 

We  have  preserved  as  a  relic  this  ominous  line,  the 
last  probably  written  by  the  author  of  the  "  Comddie 
Humaine."  This  was,  although  we  did  not  at  first  com- 
prehend it,  the  supreme  cry :  Eloi^  Eloi^  lama^  sabhao- 
thani!  of  the  thinker  and  the  worker.  The  idea  that 
Balzac  could  die  had  not  even  occurred  to  us. 

Some  days  after  this,  we  were  taking  an  ice  at  Caf6 
Florian,  upon  the  place  Santo-Marco.  The  Journal 
des  Debats,  one  of  the  few  French  newspapers  which 
penetrate  to  Venice,  chanced  to  come  into  our  hands,  and 
here  we  saw  announced  the  death  of  Balzac.  We  fell 
powerless  into  our  chair  upon  the  flag-stones  of  the 
place  at  this  overwhelming  news,  and  with  our  sorrow 
soon  blent  a  most  unchristian  movement  of  indignation 
and  revolt ;  for  all  souls  in  the  sight  of  God  are  of  equal 
value.  We  had  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  the  idiot 
asylum,  upon  the  island  of  San-Servolo,  and  had  seen 
there  decrepit  idiots,  octogenarian  wrecks,  human 
hobgoblins  guided  not  even  by  animal  instinct,  and  we 

II* 


250  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

asked  ourselves  why  this  luminous  brain  had  been  ex- 
tinguished like  a  torch  we  snuff  out,  while  life  remained 
tenacious  in  these  darkened  heads,  vaguely  traversed  by 
deceptive  rays  of  intelligence. 

Years  have  flown  since  that  fatal  hour.  Posterity 
has  begun  for  Balzac;  he  seems  greater  every  day. 
When  he  was  among  his  contemporaries,  they  little  ap- 
preciated him  they  saw ;  him  only  in  fragments,  and 
sometimes,  under  unfavorable  aspects ;  now  the  edifice 
he  builded  towers  upward  as  we  recede  from  it,  like  the 
cathedral  of  a  town  hidden  by  the  neighboring  houses, 
and  which  in  the  horizon  is  outlined  immense  above  tho 
flattened  roofs.  The  monument  is  not  finished,  but 
such  as  it  is,  it  awes  us  by  its  hugeness,  and  the 
surprised  generations  will  ask  each  other,  "  what  man- 
ner of  man  is  the  giant  who  alone  has  heaved  up  these 
formidable  blocks,  and  reared  so  high  this  Babel  where 
are  heard  the  murmurings  of  all  social  orders  ! " 

Although  dead,  Balzac  has  still  his  detractors;  they 
hurl  upon  his  memory  the  vulgar  reproach  of  immorality, 
the  last  insult  of  impotent  and  jealous  mediocrity,  or  of 
stupidity.  The  author  of  the  "•  Comedie  Humaine  "  is 
pure,  not  immoral ;  he  is  even  an  austere  moralist.  A 
Monarchist  and  a  Catholic,  he  defends  authority,  ex- 
alts religion,  preaches  duty,  reprimands  passion,  and  ad- 
mits happiness  only  in  marriage  and  the  family. 

"  Man,"  says  he,  "  is  neither  good  nor  bad  ;  he  is  born 
with  instincts  and  aptitudes  ;  society,  far  from  depraving 
■him,  as  Rousseau  has  pretended,  perfects  him;  but 
interest  also  develops  his  evil  inclinations.  Christianity, 
and  especially  Catholicism,  being  as  I  have  Said  in  the 
'  Country  Physician,'  a  complete  system  of  the  repression 
of  the  depraved  tendencies  of  man,  is  the  greatest  ele- 
ment of  social  order." 


HONOKE   DE    BALZAC.  251 

Anticipating  the  reproach  of  immorality  which 
some  ill-constituted  minds  would  cast  upon  him,  Avith 
the  ingenuity  of  a  great  man,  Balzac  enumerates  as  one 
of  his  chief  merits,  the  many  irreproachable  characters 
to  be  found  in  the  "  Comedie  Humaine."  Those  who 
]iave  read  that  master-piece  know  them  well;  those  who 
have  not,  should  hasten  to  make  their  acquaintance. 

Figures  of  villains  are  not  wanting  in  this  "  Comedie 
Humaiue ;"  but  is  Paris  peopled  exclusivel}'"  by  angels  ? 


BERANGER. 

Born  1780— Died  185T. 

We  met  him  in  the  promenades,  and  we  greeted  him 
with  a  respectful  glance,  but  he  was  no  longer  a  contem- 
porary, although  he  lived  among  us.  One  need  not  in 
this  hurrying  epoch  live  many  years,  ere  he  withdraws 
from  the  melee,  to  be  present  at  his  renown  as  if  he 
were  his  own  descendant.  A  long  time  before  he 
descended  to  the  tomb,  Bdranger  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  what  posterity  thought  of  him,  and  he  could 
sleep  tranquilly  upon  his  immortality,  if  ever  such  ambl 
tion  enticed  his  heart.  Men  born  with  the  century  or 
a  little  before  it,  formed  the  immediate  public  of  Beran- 
ger.  The  young  generation  best  knew  him  from  having 
heard  him  sung  by  their  fathers,  and  from  having  sung 
his  songs  itself.  It  admired  him  a  little  from  hearsay 
and  from  vague  childish  remembrances.  ThiS  is  a 
favorable  condition  for  the  poet's  glory.  His  titles  are 
admitted,  they  are  no  longer  discussed,  and  the  general 
signification  of  his  work  is  more  clearly  revealed. 

Beranger  consoled  humiliated  France,  he  preserved 
and  revived  noble  remembrances,  and  in  this  sense,  he 
truly  merits  the  title  of  national  poet.  His  refrains 
have  flitted,  winged  and  sonorous,  over  the  lips  of  men, 
and  many  know  them  who  have  never  read  them.     No 


juir 


BEKANGER.  253 

one  was  more  popular,  and  in  this  respect  he  won  that 
which  was  refused  to  higher  and  greater  poets  than  he. 

His  talent  was  to  enclose  in  a  narrow  frame,  a  clear, 
well-defined  idea,  easily  comprehensible,  and  to  express 
it  by  simple  forms.  He  thought  of  the  unlettered 
whom  French  poets  too  much  forget,  and  are  punished 
for  the  disdain,  by  a  circumscribed  reputation.  The 
uneducated,  women  and  the  common  people,  rarely 
open  a  volume  of  verses.  They  comprehend  nothing  of 
these  lyric  digressions,  these  complicated  rhymes,  these 
far-fetched  words.  They  must  have  a  legend,  a  little 
drama,  an  action,  a  sentiment,  something  human,  and 
suited  to  their  capacity.  B^ranger  possesses  the  sense 
of  composition.  His  songs,  even  the  least  successful, 
have  a  plan,  a  connection,  an  end;  they  begin,  develop, 
and  close  logically.  In  short,  they  contain  a  skeleton, 
like  a  vaudeville,  a  romance,  or  a  drama.  They  are 
not  mere  effusions,  poetic  caprices,  unconscious  harmo- 
nies. 

His  design  being  arrested  and  traced  by  the  pen,  like 
certain  painters  who  would  not  lose  their  outlines, 
B Granger  filled  it  and  colored  it,  laboriously  sometimes, 
with  a  firm,  free,  exact  touch,  without  great  warmth  of 
tone,  but  with  that  gray  shade  which  is,  as  it  were,  the 
pallet  of  French  genius.  He  was  an  enemy  to  all  arts, 
transports,  violences  and  audacities.  Although  he  vol- 
untarily restrained  himself  (and  often  the  restraint  cost 
hiin  dear)  to  a  manner  which  he  made  elevated,  but 
which  even  in  him,  we  consider  inferior,  he  was  always 
careful,  like  a  true  artist,  of  the  rythm  and  the  ryhme, 
without  letting  them  predominate,  as  some  have  said. 
With  him  the  consonance  comes  full  and  round,  and 
the  rhyme  is  almost  always  perfect.  He  has  often  in 
this  way,  rarities  and  felicities  which  surprise   while 


254  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

they  content  the  ear.  His  verse,  sometimes  pitiful  in 
structure,  and  almost  spoiled  by  lack  of  space, — the 
song  not  admitting  more  than  six  or  eight  couplets,  and 
not  going  beyond  the  verse  of  ten  feet — the  caBsuras 
long  and  badly  arranged  for  songs — is,  in  general,  full 
well  constructed  and  well  divided,  infinitely  superior 
to  all  contemporary  verses  up  to  the  advent  of  the  young, 
romantic  school,  which  wrought  so  marvellously  in 
rythm.  But  the  execution,  although  he  worked  at  it 
with  an  amorous  patience,  taking  and  retaking  the  file 
to  erase  all  defects,  was  still  only  secondary  in  his  eyes ; 
he  subordinated  all  to  the  first  intention,  to  the  wished- 
for  end,  to  the  desired  effect.  As  a  dramatic  author 
who  preoccupied  himself  less  with  style  than  a  writer 
properly  so  called,  he  must,  we  may  well  suppose,  have 
discarded  many  charming  things  which  were  too  dis- 
cursive or  too  lengthy  for  his  poems.  Few  poets  have 
this  courage  or  this  good  sense. 

He  was  born  of  the  people,  notwithstanding  the 
aristocratic  particle  which  preceded  his  name ;  and  he 
was,  in  all  his  instincts,  with  the  people.  He  naturally 
comprehended  and  felt  their  joys,  their  sorrows,  their 
regrets,  their  hopes  ;  he  was  also  entirely  modern.  He 
did  not  go  to  antiquity  for  his  subjects ;  he  ignored 
antiquity  at  the  beginning,  and  feigned  to  ignore  it  to 
the  end.  Not  having  learned  Latin,  he  ingeniously 
availed  himself  of  his  pretext  for  not  producing  the  cen- 
tos of  Horace  or  Virgil.  In  a  time  of  imitation  he  was 
original  rather  through  thought  than  form,  and  as  the 
critics  then  did  not  attach  great  importance  to  songs,  he 
did  not  have  to  submit  to  those  violent  attacks  which 
greeted  other  geniuses  at  their  first  public  appearance. 

The  France,  the  Revolution  of  1830,  proved  him  well, 
he  who  always  felt  the  rancor  of  1815  to  the   Restora- 


BEKANGER.      '  255 

tion.  The  success  of  Beranger's  political  songs  was 
immense  ;  with  rare  felicity,  he  expressed  a  general 
sentiment,  and  sang  aloud  that  which  all  others  mur- 
mured low .  He  sang  of  the  man  of  destiny,  of  the  tri- 
color, of  the  old  sergeant,  and  he  gave  besides  to  France 
means  of  mocking  at  its  conquerors,  a  service  which  this 
brave,  proud  and  intellectual  people  has  never  forgot- 
ten ;  content  with  all,  if  it  could  only  render  its  enemy 
ridiculous. 

In  one  way,  Bdranger  resembles  Charlet,  who,  after 
his  manner,  has  also  written  the  familiar  epic  of  the 
grand  army,  and  has  represented  Napoleon  as  the  peo- 
ple saw  him  with  his  little  chapeau  and  his  gray  over- 
coat,— a  difficult  task  in  a  full  civilization,  when  the 
poet  and  the  painter  must  find  the  legend  in  history, 
and  with  some  ineffaceable  traits  design  a  silhouette  at 
the  acknowledged  instant. 

Here  doubtless  are  the  reasons  for  the  great,  undying 
popularity  which  is  attached  to  the  name  of  Beranger, 
but  they  are  not  the  only  ones ;  his  mind  was  really 
French,  Gallic  even,  with  no  admixture  of  a  foreign 
element ;  that  is  to  say,  he  possessed  a  mind,  temperate, 
mirthful,  waggish  ;  he  had  a  facile  wisdom,  a  Socratic 
good  nature  between  that  of  Montaigne  and  Rabelais ; 
he  laughed  more  willingly  than  he  wept,  and  yet,  he 
knew  how  to  mingle  a  smile  and  a  tear.  His  is  not 
precisely  a  poetic  spirit  such  as  Goethe,  Schiller, 
Byron,  Lamartine,  Victor  Hugo  and  Alfred  de  Mus- 
set  have  revealed;  but  the  genius  of  France  is  not 
lyrical. 

Beranger,  despite  his  political  bias,  pleases  a  great 
many  people,  by  that  ingenuous  lucidity,  that  rather 
homel}^  sobriety,  that  proverbial  good  sense,  which,  for 
us,  approaches  too  near  to  prose.  We  consent  to  accept 


256  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

what  the  Muse  brings  us  on  its  feet,  especially  when 
those  feet  are  shod  in  delicate  buskins,  but  we  would 
prefer  that  she  should  soar  on  grand  pinions,  even 
though  she  be  lost  in  the  clouds  ! 

There  are  in  Bferanger's  works  a  host  of  types  which 
he  has  thrown  off  in  a  few  couplets,  and  which  will 
live  forever  that  vigorous  life  of  art  so  much  more  en- 
during than  the  real  life  : — among  these  are  the  "  King 
of  Yvetot,"  "  Roger  Bontemps,  •  the  Marquis  of  Cara- 
bas,"  "Madame  Gregoire,"  "  Fretillon,"  "Lisette," 
brilliant  etchings,  graceful  sketches,  pastels  made  with 
the  end  of  the  finger  and  which  are  equal  in  value  to 
the  most  finished  pictures.  It  seems  as  if  we  had  met 
them  as  real  personages  in  our  every-day  life  ;  that  we 
have  spoken  to  them  and  they  have  answered  us. 


BRIZEUX. 

Born  1806— Died  1858. 


The  author  of  "  Marie,"  as  he  was  called  at  the  time 
when  people  still  occupied  themselves  with  poets,  was 
one  of  those  men,  common  yesterday,  rare  now,  who 
live  only  for  art.  The  bees  of  Hymettus  had  flitted 
above  his  cradle,  and  had  alighted  on  his  lips.  When 
very  young,  the  Muse  had  touched  him  with  her  wing, 
and  he  respected  the  sacred  contact.  Never  was  he 
willing  to  descend  to  vulgar  labors,  to  those  pursuits 
which  bring  bread  fi-om  day  to  day ;  he  preferred  the 
narrowest  mediocrity  of  fortune — and  why  should  he  not 
say  so  ? — misery,  to  what  he  considered  a  derogation  to 
poetry.  All  he  could  take  upon  himself  was  to  ask 
alms  for  Dante,  whom  he  religiously  translated,  and  his 
author  gave  him  the  obolus  necessary  for  the  day  of 
supreme  need.  Brizeux  was  a  Breton,  and  he  loved 
with  a  jealous  love 

La  terre  de  granit  recouverte  de  chines. 

He  personified  Brittany  under  the  figure  of  "  Marie,''  a 
sweet  symbol  of  the  absent  and  regretted  country.  In 
this  lovely  poem,  we  respire  the  odor  of  the  broom  and 
the  genista,  the  sharp  and  salubrious  freshness  of  the 
neighboring  ocean  ;  and  amid  the  sounds  of  the  hiniou^ 


258  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

■we  hear  as  it  were,  the  modulations  of  the  antique  flute. 
"  The  Bretons  "  "  Pomel  and  Nola  "  are  pictures  of  a 
local  coloring,  very  just  and  very  fine,  painted  lovingly 
by  a  hand  long  familiar  with  the  sites  and  the  men  they 
represent.  The  "  Ternaires"  have  a  more  mystic  ten- 
dency, and  Tseem  inspired  by  communion  with  Dante. 
The  author,  impressed  witli  the  importance  of  the  num- 
ber three^  discovered  it  everywhere,  and  under  a  ternary 
rhythm,  formulated  Doric  sentences  which  would  not 
have  been  disowned  by  Pythagoras. 

All  these  poems  are  constructed  with  extreme  care, 
clearness  and  delicacy;  we  see  that  the  author  in  his 
long,  laborious  leisure,  weighed  every  line,  every  word, 
every  syllable  in  balances  of  gold ;  disquieting  Imnself 
in  regard  to  an  assonance,  an  alliteration,  a  light  shade 
of  thought, — all  things  for  which  the  vulgar  little  care, 
charmed  as  they  are  with  complicated  apologues  and 
romantic  adventures.  As  if  it  were  not  enough  for 
beautiful  French  verses  to  be  unknown,  Brizeux  wrote 
in  the  dialect  of  Breton,  and  many  of  his  Gallic  ballads 
are  popular  down  there  in  the  country. 

And  so  he  lived,  now  in  Brittany,  now  in  Florence, 
melancholy,  savage  and  proud ;  ignored  enough,  but 
not  having  been  false  to  his  poetic  dream,  and  leaving  a 
master-piece,  "  Marie."  His  ambition,  if  he  had  any, 
was  to  belong  to  the  Academy.  The  Academy  will 
suffer  the  chagrin  that  he  died  too  soon  for  the  fulfil 
ment  of  this  perfectly  literary  desire. 


V3 


HENRI  MONNIER. 

Born  ik  Paris,  1799. 

Henri  Monnier  is  one  of  the  most  decided  originals  of 
our  time.  Long  before  the  daguerreotopic  and  realistic 
schools,  he  had  pursued  the  art  of  absolute  truth  and 
attained  it. 

"  Nothing  is  beautiful  but  the  true,  the  true  alone  is  amiable," 

is  a  device  he  might  have  engraven  upon  his  seal,  for 
he  has  always  conformed  to  it.  An  artist  must  have  rare 
powers  to  conform  rigorously  to  such  a  principle  from 
one  end  to  the  other  of  a  career  which  is  beginning  to 
be  long,  and  which  has  led  him  into  the  triple  paths  of 
painter,  author  and  actor. 

He  began  by  making  sketches  of  the  types  of  character 
which  impressed  him,  and  with  a  few  strokes  of  the 
pencil  he  arrested  their  gestures,  their  habits,  their 
angles  of  incidence  and  reflection,  their  eccentricities, 
their  fractures,  which  the  common  throng  did  not  perceive, 
and  which,  to  the  observant  eye,  are  revelations  of  char- 
acter. Afterward,  not  content  with  these  mute  reproduc- 
tions, he  gave  voice  to  his  delineations  in  those  burlesques 
which  have  become  celebrated ;  we  say  burlesques,  in 
order  to  avail  ourselves  of  a  consecrated  word,  for 
nothing  less  resembles  burlesque  than  these  mouldings 
upon  nature,  executed  by  a  process  of  which  Monnier 
alone  has  tho  secret. 


260  LIFE     PORTRAITS. 

It  was  at  first  like  a  sort  of  legendary  caricature,— 
then  the  artist,  reuniting  many  types,  has  formed  from 
them  scenes  irresistibly  comic,  where  he  imitates  the 
voices  of  different  actors.  Then  he  has  written  them, 
amplifying  and  perfecting  them ;  for  speech  is  winged, 
and  the  impression  remains.  Not  content  with  this,  he 
has  played  them  at  the  theatre  with  a  cool,  incisive  per- 
fection which  recalls  Perlet,  the  phj-siologist  among 
actors.  Can  we  not  place  Monnier  by  the  side  of 
Potier,  of  Vernet,  of  Bouffd  and  other  illustrious  ones 
of  this  class  ?  No ;  for  he  does  not  represent  a  dram- 
atic action,  but  particular  idiosyncrasies,  observed 
types  of  special  natures,  of  self-existent  origin,  and 
which  demand  a  separate  frame ;  he  alsQ,  has  succeeded 
better  than  any  one  else  in  his  pieces  of  the  second 
rank ;  there  he  is  at  his  ease  ;  he  squares,  develops 
and  transforms  himself,  abandoning  the  boots  and 
the  short  pipe  of  the  cattle-merchant,  for  shoes  with 
marcasite  buckles,  and  the  golden  snuff-box  of  the  old 
epicurean. 

Henry  Monnier  is  himself  the  blank  canvas  on  which 
he  paints  his  personages.  His  own  individuality  dis- 
appears entirely  under  the  colors  from  which  he  recovers 
it.  He  metamorphoses  himself  from  head  to  foot ;  he 
has  the  shoes  and  the  coiffure,  the  linen  and  the  coat, 
the  figure  and  the  eyes,  the  voice  and  the  accent  of  the 
type  he  seeks  to  reproduce.  The  resemblance  is  exterior 
and  interior ;  it  is  the  man  himself.  La  Bruy^re  and 
Larochefoucauld,  those  pitiless  anatomists,  do  not  plunge 
the  scalpel  more  deeply  into  nature.  Such  a  wadded 
dressing-gown  of  Henri  Monnier's  is  worth  a  page  of  the 
*'  Caracteres  ;  "  such  a  fashion  of  pinching  the  snuff  be- 
tween the  thumb  and  the  index  finger  is  a  new  para- 
graph of  the  "  Maximes." 


HENRI    MONNIER.  261 

If  this  be  SO,  why  is  it  that  Henri  Moniiier  is  not  the 
great  painter,  the  great  writer,  the  great  actoi*  of  our 
epoch  ?  Nature  is  not  the  end  of  art,  it  is  at  most  the 
means ;  the  daguerreotype  reproduces  objects  without 
their  colors,  and  the  mirror  reverses  them,  which  is  an 
inexactness,  a  fantasy,  say  the  realists.  In  everything 
expressed,  there  must  be  an  incidence  of  light,  a  senti- 
ment, a  touch,  which  betrays  the  soul  of  the  artist. 
Henri  Monnier  does  not  select,  he  does  not  mitigate,  he 
does  not  exaggerate,  he  makes  no  sacrifice ;  he  takes  care 
not  to  augment  the  intensity  of  the  shadows,  to  throw 
the  day  into  bolder  relief.  His  jJorters  are  porters, 
nothing  more ;  he  does  not  give  them  fantastic  ugliness, 
richly-sordid  tatters,  complexions  of  yellow  varnish,  such 
as  the  Flemmings  lend  to  their  ugly  fellows ;  he  does 
not,  like  Rembrandt,  make  them  cook  at  their  lodgings, 
sour  herrings  whose  smoke  colors  the  warm  blonde  com- 
plexions, the  dirty  windows,  the  rancid  linen  and  the 
bituminous  walls.  Behind  the  stove  where  the  stew  is 
cooking,  upon  the  beams  where  the  bird-cage  hangs,  he 
does  not  throw  doubtful  and  reddish  shadows  which 
look  like  bats  or  gnomes  seated  upon  their  bended 
joints.  His  portresses  are  purely  ignoble :  he  does  not 
make  them  ferocious  by  placing  a  wild  boar's  snout  over 
a  callous  lip  as  in  the  old  woman  of  "  The  Temptation 
of  Saint  Anthony,"  by  Tdniers ;  his  bourgeois^ — and  no 
one  has  painted  them  more  justly,  not  even  Balzac, — 
weary  you  like  the  real  bourgeois,  by  their  inexhaustible 
flow  of  commonplace  and  solemn  stupidity.  It  is  no 
longer  comedy ;  it  is  stenography.  But  of  all  his  sil- 
houettes cut  from  life,  majestically  detaches  itself  the 
figure  of  Joseph  Prudhomme,  that  synthesis  of  bourgeois 
stupidity ;  it  seems  as  if  you  had  known  him,  and  as  if, 
he  had  just  left  you,  shaking  your  hand  and  laughing 


262  LIFE  PORTRAITS. 

his  loud,  satisfied  laugh.  What  a  magnificent  imbecile  ! 
Never  has  the  flower  of  human  stupidity  more  luxuriant- 
ly blossomed  !  It  is  happy  ;  it  is  radiant !  How  he  lets 
fall  from  his  thick  lips  those  leaden  aphorisms  so  hor- 
rifying to  common  sense!  Joseph  Prudhomme  is  the 
vengeance  of  Henri  Monnier,  who  indemnifies  him  for  the 
ennuis,  the  contradictions,  the  humiliations  and  all  the 
petty  sufferings  commonplace  individuals  cause  artists 
often  unintentionally.  For  this  time  only,  he  has  de- 
parted from  his  glacial  impartiality ;  he  has  grown  angry 
and  excited ;  he  has  exaggerated  the  trait,  he  has  over- 
wrought the  effect  T  in  fact,  he  has  invented  it. 

Prudhomme,  despite  his  extreme  realness,  is  no  longer 
a  copy,  he  is  a  creation.  Balzac,  who  made  a  great  deal 
of  Monnier,  has  tried  to  introduce  Prudhomme  into  his 
"  Human  Comedy,"  under  the  name  of  Phellion.  Phel- 
lion  is  no  doubt  very  fine,  with  his  ram's  head  and  his 
face  marked  with  small-pox,  his  white,  starched  cravat, 
his  vest,  his  black  coat,  and  his  shoes  with  dabbled  ties ; 
but  his  phrases  will  not  do. 

Whenever  Monnier  played,  he  attracted  to  the  theatre 
a  special  public  of  artist  and  connoisseurs ;  but  his  play- 
ing was  too  fine,  too  true,  too  natural,  to  greatly  amuse  the 
crowd.  The  Prudhommes  of  the  hall  are  astonished  to 
see  him  laughed  at  in  the  representation ;  they  have  the 
same  ideas,  they  express  them  in  the  same  way,  and  are 
surprised  that  anyone  can  think  these  fashions  ridiculous. 
Prudhomme  himself  from  living  with  his  kind  has 
adopted  their  conduct,  their  manner,  their  tones  of  voice, 
their  phraseology,  and  often  into  the  most  intellectual 
conversation,  a  period  a  la  Joseph  Prudhomme  seriously 
intrudes. 

Who  has  not  read  the  "  Popular  Scenes,"  the  "  Pleasures 
of  the  Country,"  "  The  Romance  at  the  Gate  ?  "  Madame 


HENRY    JfONNIER.  263 

Desjardins  is  immortal  as  Madame  Giboii  and  INIadame 
Pochet.  That  cap,  its  loose  borders  fluttering  like 
elephantine  ears,  floats  in  all  memories  ;  and  no  one  has 
forgotten  the  Lyonnaise  woman  so  anxious  as  to  the  fate 
of  little  birds  during  the  winter.  The  "  Pleasures  of  the 
Country"  is  an  antiphrase  whose  truth  you  may  well  ques- 
tion. Henri  Monnier's  peasants  are  not  the  peasants  of 
the  pastoral  poem  ;  they  are  thieves  like  magpies,  misers 
like  griffins,  rogues  like  foxes,  diplomats  who  would  foil 
Talleyrand.  And  what  a  country  !  A  country  of  city 
precincts,  a  paved  expanse,  dusty, without  shade,  without 
privacy  and  without  leisure,  which  gives  you  a  desire  to 
inhabit  a  suite  of  rooms  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chausee 
d'Antin,  or  a  garret  upon  the  Montmartre  boulevard  I 


ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 

(1802-1870.) 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  characters  that  the  nineteenth 
century  has  produced  was  the  son  of  General  Dumas  and 
of  Marie  Labouret,  an  innkeeper's  daughter.  His  father 
was  an  officer  of  remarkable  gallantry,  who,  for  his  dash- 
ing exploits,  had  obtained  the  odd  title  of  the  "  Horatius 
Codes  of  the  Tyrol."  He  was  a  Creole,  the  illegitimate 
son  of  the  Marquis  Davy  de  la  Pailleterie  and  of  Louise 
Dumas,  a  black  woman  of  St.  Domingo.  Long  after,  his 
grandson  was  to  excite  the  laughter  of  Paris  by  claiming 
this  title  and  assiiming  the  family  arms.  The  general  had 
an  insubordinate  temper,  and  excited  the  dislike  and  sus- 
picion of  Napoleon,  who  sent  him  back  from  ^gypt  to 
languish  in  obscurity  and  die  of  disappointment  at  Villers- 
Cotterets,  in  the  year  1806. 

Alexandre  Diimas  was  born  on  July  4,  1802,  at  Yillers- 
Cotterets,  where  he  was  brought  up  under  the  care  of  an 
affectionate  and  pictus  inother. 

Some  of  the  most  graceful  passages  of  autobiography  are 
to  be  found  in  those  pages  of  his  memoirs  which  are  devoted 
to  an  account. of  his  boyhood,  and  which  present  an  excel- 
lent picture  of  French  country-town  life.  He  seems  to  have 
been  an  icUe  and  a  troublesome  youth,  and,  thougli  places 
were  f omid  for  him  with  notaries  and  other  functionaries,  he 


ALEXANDRE    DUMAS.  265 

could  not  settle  to  business.  The  family  means  were  slen- 
der. They  were  soon  almost  reduced  to  poverty ;  and  in  the 
year  1823  Alexandre  set  off  for  Paris  to  seek  his  fortune, 
where  he  was  to  make  such  good  use  of  his  slender  oppor- 
tunities, that  within  five  years  his  name  became  famous. 
Within  a  few  days  of  his  arrival,  an  old  friend  of  his 
father's.  General  Foy,  obtained  a  clerk's  place  for  him  in 
the  Duke  of  Orleans's  establishflaent,  worth  only  £50  a  year, 
but  it  seemed  a  fortune.  A  friend,  De  Leuven,  and  he 
now  joined  their  talents  in  a  light  farce,  called  "  Le  Chasse 
et  I'Amour"  (produced  September  22,1825).  This  was 
succeeded  by  a  dramatic  piece,  written  with  the  assistance 
of  one  of  his  friends,  and  called  "  La  Xoce  et  I'Enterre- 
ment"  (Xovember  ^1,  1826),  kno'svn  in  England  as  the 
amusing  "Ilhistrious  Stranger."  Meanwhile  the  visit  of 
Macready  and  other  English  players  to  Paris  had  intro- 
duced him  to  Shakespeare,  and  had  set  him  to  work  on  a 
grand  romantic  and  historical  drama,  which  he  called 
"  Christine."  The  young  clerk  had  the  boldness  to" look  for- 
ward to  having  it  presented  on  the  boards  of  the  first 
theatre  in  France,  and,  with  an  energy  and  spirit  that 
should  encourage  every  friendless  aspirant,  set  every  re- 
source he  could  command  at  work.  Charles  !N^odier  intro- 
duced him  to  Baron  Taylor,  the  literary  director  of  the 
theatre,  who,  if  we  are  to  credit  Dumas,  was  so  enchanted 
with  the  work  that  he  accepted  it  and  submitted  it  to  the 
company  at  once.  It  is  more  probable  that,  from  the  cor- 
.I'upt  fashion  which  then  regulated  such  matters,  the  privi- 
lege was  secured  by  the  influence  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans. 
But  it  happened  that  another  "Christine"  was  supported 
by  even  greater  influence,  and  Dumas's  had  to  be  with- 
drawn. In  a  short  time  he  had  written  "  Henri  III.,"  which 
vs-as  produced  (February  11,  1829)  with  the  most  extraor- 
dinary results.  This  piece  was  important  as  being  the  first 
12 


266  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

success  of  the  well-known  "  Romantic  School."  "  Henri 
III.,"  it  is  said,  brought  its  author  about  £2,000.  But  the 
revolution  of  July  now  broke  out  and  interrupted  eveiy 
literary  scheme. 

It  was,  however,  welcomed  by  the  Creole's  son,  who 
flung  himself  with  ardor  into  the  struggle.  And  here 
begins  that  double  interest  in  his  life,  which  was  as  ad- 
venturous as  that  of  some  of  his  own  heroes,  and  sug- 
gests the  career  of  Benvenuto  Cellini.  He  has,  of  course, 
made  his  own  share  in  the  exciting  scenes  of  the  Three 
Days  as  conspicuous  as  possible ;  and  his  expedition  to 
Soissons,  and  almost  single-handed  capture  of  a  powder 
magazine,  a  general,  and  officer,  were  heartily  laughed  at 
and  wholly  disbelieved.  Allowing,  however,  for  embel- 
lishment, it  is  due  to  him  to  say  that  his  narrative  seems  to 
be  true  in  the  main.  He  was,  however,  unlucky  enough  to 
have  cast  his  lot  with  the  more  violent  party,  which  found 
itself  opposed  to  the  Orleans  family,  and  never  recovered 
their  favor,  and  King  Louis  Philippe  always  treated  him 
with  good-humored  contempt.  He  now  returned  to  his 
dramatic  labors,  and  produced  "Antony "  (1831),  one  of 
the  earliest  of  those  gross  outrages  on  public  morality  which 
have  helped  to  make  conjugal  infidelity  the  favorite  theme 
of  the  French  drama.  But  by  this  time  he  had  found  that 
the  slow  production  of  dramas  scarcely  offered  a  profitable 
field  for  his  talents.  The  successful  founding  of  the  "  Revue 
des  DeuxMondes  "  tempted  him  into  trying  his  skill  on  his- 
torical romances,  professedly  in  imitation  of  Sir  Walter. 
Scott.  And  this  would  seem  to  be  the  first  opening  of 
that  seam  which  was  to  be  worked  later  with  such  extra- 
ordinary profit.  Here  he  introduced  that  daring  system  of 
working  up  the  ideas  of  others,  which  he  had  already  car- 
ried out  in  his  dramatic  labors,  his  successful  pieces  of 
"  Henri  III."  and  "  Christine  "  pi'oving  to  consist  of  whole 


ALEXANDRE    DUMAS.  267 

scenes  stolen  from  Schiller  and  other  writers  almost  without 
changing  a  word,  though  the  arrangement  of  the  plot  and 
situations  are  masterly  and  original. 

A  piece  of  his,  called  the  "  Tour  de  Kesle  "  (produced  in 
1832),  which  caused  a  perfect  furore  in  Paris,  led,  how- 
ever, to  a  more  serious  charge  of  plagiarism.  In  conse- 
quence of  a  duel  he  was  directed  to  leave  France  for  a 
time,  and  set  off — in  July,  1832 — on  a  tour  through  Swit- 
zerland, which  suggested  to  him  a  series  of  those  odd 
books  of  travels  made  up  of  long  extracts  from  old  me- 
moirs, guide-books,  imaginary  dialogues,  and  adventures. 

In  1842  he  married  an  actress  named  Ida  Ferrier,  who 
had  performed  in  his  plays ;  but  the  union  was  not  a  happy- 
one,  and,  after  a  rather  extravagant  career,  the  lady  re- 
tired to  Florence,  where  she  died  in  the  year  1859, 
Hitherto  his  success,  though  remarkable,  could  not  be 
called  European,  and  he  was  not  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  crowd  of  French  professional  litterateurs.  But  in 
1844  the  famous  "  Monte  Christo"  appeared,  which  maybe 
said  to  have  excited  more  universal  interest  than  any  ro- 
mance since  "Robinson  Crusoe  "  or  "  Waverley."  The  extra- 
ordinary color,  the  never-flagging  spirit,  the  endless  sur- 
prises, and  the  air  of  nature  which  was  cast  over  even  the  most 
extravagant  situations,  make  this  work  worthy  of  the  popu- 
larity it  enjoyed  in  almost  every  country  of  the  world..  It 
was  followed  by  the  no  less  famous  "  Three  Musketeers." 
These  productions  were  the  more  remarkable  as  they  were 
written  from  day  to  day  for  the  readers  of  a  newspaper, 
and  thus  firmly  established  ihe  feuiUeion  as  a  necessaiy  ele- 
ment of  French  literature.  In  this,  as  in  other  depart- 
ments where  he  was  successful,  Dumas  Avas  not  original, 
and  only  took  up  the  idea  of  a  successful  predecessor, 
Eugene  Sue,  whose  "  Juif  Errant "  had  enjoyed  much  popu- 
larity in  this  shape. 


268  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

This  triumph  made  him,  as  it  were,  irresponsible  in  the 
literary  world,  and  suggested  to  him  a  series  of  wholesale 
operations  for  supplying  the  public  with  books,  the  histoiy 
of  which  makes  gin  extraordinary  chapter  in  literature.  He 
contracted  for  innumerable  stories,  each  of  great  length,  and 
to  be  published  at  the  same  time,  almost  any  one  of  which 
would  be  beyond  the  powers  of  a  single  writer.  In  a  single 
year,  1844,  he  issued  some  forty  volumes,  and  later  on  he 
engaged  himself  even  more  deeply  to  meet  these  heavy  de- 
mands. He  began  by  employing  one  or  two  assistants, 
with  whose  aid  he  furnished  his  two  great  stories  ;  and  it 
may  be  said  that,  wdth  his  constant  supervision  and  inspira- 
tion, his  daily  direction,  suggestion  of  incidents,  manipula- 
tion of  the  ideas  of  others,  consultations,  etc.,  he  might 
almost  fairly  claim  the  credit  of  having  written  "  Monte 
Christo  "  and  the  "  Three  Musketeers."  His  most  valuable 
assistant  was  Maquet.  Indeed,  the  chief  credit  of  Dumas's 
most  important  stories  has  been  claimed  for  him ;  but  as 
he  afterwards  often  tried  his  powers  alone,  and  with  but 
poor  success,  it  seems  probable  that  his  share  in  Dumas's 
works  was  no  more  than  what  has  been  described.  But 
presently  the  popular  A^Titer  found  that  even  this  form  of 
partnership  was  too  great  a  tax  upon  his  time,  and  he  began 
to  proceed  upon  the  simpler  process  of  ordering  works  from 
clever  yoimg  writers,  to  whom  he  suggested  a  subject,  and 
perhaps  a-  simple  outline  of  treatment — and  then  issuing 
their  work  with  his  name.  Some  care  in  the  selection  was 
at  first  exercised,  but  later  he  accepted  any  stuff  that  was 
brought  to  him — travels,  essays,  stories — and  indorsed  them 
with  his  name.  Indeed,  a  volume  could  be  filled  with  tlie 
odd  details  and  complicated  ramifications  of  this  system, 
which  was  exposed  in  the  most  imsparing  fashion  by  Gra- 
nier  de  Cassagnac,  Jacquet,  alias  "  De  Mirccourt,"  and 
Querard.     Dumas  justified    his   system   of  a2:»propriating 


ALEXANDRE   DUMAS.  269 

from  dead  and  living  authors  by  a  tlieory  of  what  he  called 
"  conqnests."  "  All  human  plienomena,"  he  says,  "  are 
public  property.  The  man  of  genius  does  not  steal,  he 
only  conquers.  Every  one  arrives  in  his  turn  and  at  his 
hour,  seizes  what  his  ancestors  have  left,  and  puts  it  into 
new  shapes  and  combinations." 

In  the  meantime  he  was  earning  vast  sums.  Leaving 
the  work  of  composition  to  his  journeymen,  he  now  entered 
on  a  new  and  reckless  course,  with  a  view  of  dazzling  his 
countrymen  and  gratifying. his  own  Eastern  taste.  In  this 
view  he  built  a  vast  theatre  for  the  production  of  his  omti 
works,  and  a  gorgeous  castle  at  St.  Germain,  on  the  model 
of  a  palace  in  a  fairy  tale,  on  which  he  lavished  every 
adornment. 

While  these  follies  were  in  progress,  he  succeeded  in 
getting  himself  attached  to  the  suite  of  the  young  Duke 
of  Montpensier,  then  (1816)  setting  out  for  Madrid  to  be 
married,  and  received,  besides,  a  sort  of  commission  from 
the  Government  to  visit  Algeria,  with  a  view  to  making  it 
popular  by  a  lively  account  from  his  pen.  lie  was  granted 
a  passage  to  Oran  on  board  one  of  the  Government  mail- 
boats,  but,  through  an  awkward  misconception,  was  allowed 
to  divert  this  vessel  fi-om  her  regular  service,  and  used  her 
for  visiting  Carthage,  Tunis,  and  other  places.  On  his 
return  there  was  much  scandal,  and  the  ministry  was  very 
severely  interrogated  as  to  the  irregularity  of  allowing  "  a 
contractor  for  stories  "  to  make  so  free  with  public  prop- 
erty. It  was  explained  that  this  was  entirely  owing  to  a 
misrepresentation  of  the  popular  wi-iter's.  Another  rebuff, 
too,  was  waiting  him ;  for,  having  completely  neglected 
his  engagements  to  the  various  newspapers  while  making 
this  agreeable  tour,  he  found  himself  engaged  in  heavy  law- 
suits with  no  less  than  seven  journals,  including  the  "  Con- 
stitutionnel "  and  the  "  Presse."    After  defending  himself  in 


270  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

person,  a  performance  that  was  tlie  entertainment  of  all 
Paris,  he  was  cast  in  damages.  This  was  the  beginning  of 
his  disasters.  His  theatre,  after  opening  with  one  of  his 
pieces,  which  took  two  nights  to  perform,  fell  on  evil  days, 
and  the  revolution  of  184S  plunged  it  into  difficulties.  In 
these  new  scenes  he  was  by  no  means  popular,  being  sus- 
pected, from  his  assiduous  attendance  on  the  Orleans  family. 
By  this  time  all  his  best  works  had  been  written,  and  he 
was  now  only  to  attract  attention  by  some  extravagant 
literary  somersault  or  impudent  attempt  at  "  humbugging  " 
the  public.  He  attempted  newspapers  like  the  "  Mousque- 
taire,"  of  which  he  would  grow  tired  after  a  few  numbers, 
but  to  every  article  in  which  lie  was  ready  to  attach  his 
name.  His  next  escapade  was  joining  Garibaldi  (ISGO), 
whose  messenger  and  lieutenant  he  constituted  himself,  and, 
in  reward  for  some  trifling  service,  he  claimed  the  appoint- 
ment of  "  Director  of  the  Museum  and  Explorations  "  at 
Kaples,  an  office  he  was  presently  forced  to  resign.  After 
this  he  was  reduced  to  all  manner  of  devices  to  main- 
tain himself,  always  borrowing  and  obtaining  money  by 
shifts  and  pretences,  whieli  in  another  could  not  be  called 
honest.  It  becomes,  indeed,  painful  to  follow  the  stages  in 
this  rapid  decay — to  find  him  reduced  to  writing  "puffs" 
for  tradesmen,  to  exhibiting  himself  in  shop  windows,  and 
to  introducing  grand  schemes  to  the  public,  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  read  without  hearty  laughter.  A  scandalous 
infatuation,  too,  was  to  be  associated  with  his  old  age, 
which  last  excited  the  contempt  and  pity  of  all  who  knew 
him.  To  the  last  he  was  full  of  schemes,  devised  with  the 
fertility  and  roseate  imagination  of  a  Micawber ;  and  to 
the  last,  unfortunately,  he  was  devoted  to  pleasure.  The 
result  was  a  breaking-up  of  his  health,  and  even  a  decay  of 
his  faculties.  When  the  war  of  1870  broke  out,  he  was  re- 
moved from  Paris  to  Piiys,  near  Dieppe,  and  there  affec- 


ALEXANDRE    DUMAS.  271 

tionately  attended  by  his  son  and  daughter.  He  died  on 
the  5th  of  December  in  the  same  year.  He  was  even 
poorer  than  when  he  began  the  world ;  and  the  brilliant 
novelist,  who  had  earned  more  than  £10,000  a  year,  had 
hardly  a  sou  left.  On  the  16th  of  April,  18T2,  when  the 
war  was  over,  his  remains  were  removed  to  Villers-Cot- 
tej-ets,  and  interred  in  presence  of  the  leading  litterateurs 
of  Paris. 

The  works  that  bear  Dumas's  name  are  said  to  amount 
to  some  1,200  volumes.  His  dialogue  is  entirely  his  own, 
full  of  spirit  and  dramatic  propriety,  and  this,  too,  in 
spite  of  the  temptation,  to  a  man  paid  by  the  line,  to  "  spin 
out "  his  matter  to  the  utmost  extent.  He  left  about  sixty 
dramas,  of  which  not  more  than  three  or  four  will  be  re- 
membered ;  but  two,  the  "  Mariage  sous  Louis  XY."  and 
"  Mdlle.  de  Belle  Isle,"  belong  to  the  repertoire  of  the 
Comedie  rran9aise.  These  will  always  be  listened  to  with 
delight.  His  most  popular  stories  have  been  mentioned, 
but  even  now  their  undue  expansion  and  interminable  de- 
velopment, owing  to  the  necessities  of  the  feuiUeton  sys- 
tem, are  f  oupd  to  be  serious  obstacles  to  their  popularity. 

He  left  a  daughter,  Madame  Petel,  who  has  written  a 
few  romances,  and  a  son,  the  well-known  "  Alexandre  Fils," 
who,  unlike  his  father,  has  been  distinguished  by  slow  and 
careful  work.  He  is  best  known  by  his  romance,  "  La  Dame 
aux  Camelias,"  which  has  been  translated  in  every  lan- 
guage in  which  romances  are  written,  and  by  a  number  of 
dramas  which  deal  satirically  with  the  characters,  follies, 
and  manners  of  society  under  the  Second  Empire. 


MAURICE  DE  GUJfcRIK. 

I  WILL  not  presume  to  say  that  I  now  know  the  French 
language  well ;  but  at  a  time  when  I  knew  it  even  less 
well  than  at  present — some  fifteen  years  ago — I  remember 
pestering  those  about  me  with  this  sentence,  the  rhythm 
of  which  had  lodged  itself  in  my  head,  and  which,  with 
the  strangest  pron\mciation  possible,  I  kept  pei-petually 
declaiming:  "Les  dieux  jaloux  ont  enfoui  quelque  part 
les  temoignages  de  la  descendance  des  clioses;  mais  au 
bord  de  quel  Ocean  ont  ils  roule  la  pierre  qui  les  couvre,  6 
Macaree!" 

These  words  come  from  a  short  composition  called  the 
"Centaur,"  of  which  the  author,  Georges-Maurice  de  Guerin, 
died  in  the  year  1839,  at  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  without 
having  published  anything.  In  1 840  Madame  Sand  brought 
out  the  "  Centaur  "  in  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,"  with 
a  short  notice  of  its  author,  and  a  few  extracts  fi'om  his 
letters.  A  year  or  two  afterwards  she  repiinted  these 
at  the  end  of  a  volume  of  her  novels ;  and  there  it  was 
that  I  fell  in  with  them.  I  was  so  much  struck  with  the 
"  Centaur  "  that  I  waited  anxiously  to  hear  something  more 
of  its  author,  and  of  what  he  had  left ;  but  it  was  not  till 
the  other  day — twenty  years  after  the  first  publication  of  the 
"Centaur"  in  the  "Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  "—that  my 


MAURICE   DE    QUERIW.  273 

anxiety  was  satisfied.  x\t  the  end  of  1860  appeared  two  vol- 
umes with  the  title,  "  Maurice  de  Guerin,  lleliquise,"  con- 
taining the  "  Centaur,"  several  poems  of  Guerin,  his  jour- 
nals, and  a  number  of  his  letters,  collected  and  edited  by  a 
devoted  friend,  M.  Trebutien,  and  preceded  by  a  notice  of 
Guerin  by  the  first  of  living  critics,  M.  Sainte-Beuve, 

The  grand  power  of  poetry  is  its  interpretative  power ; 
by  which  I  mean,  not  a  power  of  drawing  out  in  black 
and  white  an  explanation  of  the  mystery  of  the  universe, 
but  the  power  of  so  dealing  with  things  as  to  awaken  in  us 
a  wonderfully  full,  new,  and  intimate  sense  of  them,  and  of 
our  relations  with  them.  When  this  sense  is  awakened  in 
us,  as  to  objects  without  us,  we  feel  ourselves  to  be  in  con- 
tact with  the  essential  nature  of  those  objects,  to  be  no 
longer  bewildered  and  oppressed  by  them,  but  to  have  their 
secret,  and  to  be  in  harmony  with  them ;  and  this  feeling 
calms  and  satisfies  us  as  no  other  can.  Poetry,  indeed,  in- 
terprets in  another  way  besides  this ;  but  one  of  its  two 
ways  of  interpreting,  of  exercising  its  highest  power,  is  by  • 
awakening  this  sense  in  us.  I  will  not  now  inquire  whether 
this  sense  is  ^  illusive,  whether  it  can  be  proved  not  to  be 
illusive,  whether  it  does  absolutely  make  us  possess  the  real 
nature  of  things ;  all  I  say  is,  that  poetry  can  awaken  it  in 
us,  and  that  to  awaken  it  is  one  of  the  highest  powers  of 
poetty.  The  interpretations  of  science  do  not  give  us  this 
intimate  sense  of  objects  as  the  interpretations  of  poetry 
give  it ;  they  appeal  to  a  limited  faculty,  and  not  to  the 
whole  man.  It  is  not  Linnaeus,  or  Cavendish,  or  Cuvier 
who  gives  us  the  true  sense  of  animals,  or  water,  or  plants, 
who  seizes  their  secret  for  us,  who  makes  us  participate  in 
theii-  life ;  it  is  Shakespeare,  with  his 

"daffodils 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  juid  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty.;  " 
12* 


274  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

it  is  Wordsworth,  with  his 

"voice.  .   .  .  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuokoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides ; " 

it  is  Keats,  with  his 

"  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  cold  ablation  round  Earth's  human  shores ;  " 

it  is  Chateaubriand,  with  his  "  cime  indetermvnSe  desfo- 
rets  / "  it  is  Senancour,  with  his  mountain  birch-tree : 
^^Cette  ecorce  hlanche,  lisse  et  cre'cassee  j  cette  tige  agreste  ^ 
ces  hranches  qui  sHiiclinent  vers  la  terre  /  la  mohilite  des 
feuiUes^  et  tout  cet  abandon,  simplicite  de  la  nature,  atti- 
tude des  desertsy 

Eminent  manifestations  of  this  magical  power  of  poetry 
are  very  rare  and  very  precious :  the  compositions  of 
Guerin  manifest  it,  I  thinlv,  in  singular  eminence.  Xot 
his  poems,  strictly  so  called — his  verse — so  much  as  his 
prose;  his  poems  in  general  take  for  their  vehicle  that 
favorite  metre  of  French  poetry,  the  Alexandrine ;  and,  in 
my  judgment,  I  confess  they  have  thus,  as  compared  with 
his  prose,  a  great  disadvantage  to  start  with.  In  prose, 
the  character  of  the  vehicle  for  the  composer's  thoughts  is 
not  determined  beforehand ;  every  composer  has  to  make 
his  own  vehicle ;  and  who  has  ever  done  this  more  ad- ' 
mirably  than  the  great  prose-writers  of  France — Pascal, 
Bossuet,  Fenelon,  Voltaire  ?  But  in  verse  the  composer 
has  (with  comparatively  narrow  liberty  of  modification)  to 
accept  his  vehicle  ready-made  ;  it  is  therefore  of  vital  im- 
portance to  him  that  he  should  find  at  his  disposal  a  vehicle 
adequate  to  convey  the  highest  matters  of  poetry.  We  may 
even  get  a  decisive  test  of  the  poetical  power  of  a  language 


MAURICE   DE    GUERIN.  275 

and  nation  by  ascertaining  how  far  the  principal  poetical 
veliicle  which  they  have  employed,  how  far  (in  plainer 
words)  the  established  national  metre  for  high  poetiy,  is 
adequate  or  inadequate.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  estab- 
lished metre  of  this  kind  in  France — the  Alexandrine — is 
inadequate ;  that  as  a  vehicle  for  high  poetry  it  is  greatly 
inferior  to  the  hexameter  or  to  the  iambics  of  Greece  (for 
example),  or  to  the  blank  verse  of  England.  Therefore 
the  man  of  genius  who  uses  it  is  at  a  disadvantage  as  com- 
pared with  the  man  of  genius  who  has  for  conveying  his 
thoughts  a  more  adequate  vehicle,  metrical  or  not.  Kacine 
is  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared  with  Sophocles  or  Shake^ 
speare,  and  he  is  likewise  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared  with 
Bossuet.  The  same  may  be  said  of  our  own  poets  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  a  century  which  gave  them  as  the  main 
vehicle  for  their  high  poetry  a  metre  inadequate  (as  much 
as  the  French  Alexandrine,  and  nearly  in  the  same  way) 
for  this  poetry — the  ten-syllable  couplet.  It  is  worth  re- 
marking, that  the  English  poet  of  the  eighteenth  century 
whose  compositions  wear  best  and  give  one  the  most  entire 
satisfaction— Gray — does  not  use  that  couplet  at  all ;  this 
abstinence,  however,  limits  Gray's  productions  to  a  few 
short  compositions,  and  (exquisite  as  these  are)  he  is  a 
poetical  nature  repressed  and  without  free  issue.  For  Eng- 
lish poetical  production  on  a  great  scale,  for  an  English 
poet  deploying  all  the  forces  of  his  genius,  the  ten-syllable 
couplet  was,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  the  established,  one 
may  almost  say  the  inevitable,  channel.  Now  this  couplet, 
admirable  (as  Chaucer  uses  it)  for  story-telling  not  of  the 
epic  pitch,  and  often  admirable  for  a  few  lines  even  in  poe- 
try of  a  very  high  pitch,  is  for  contiimous  use  in  poetry  of 
this  latter  kind  inadequate.  Pope,  in  his  "  Essay  on  Man," 
is  thus  at  a  disadvantage  compared  with  Lucretius  in  his 
poem  on  ISTature :  Lucretius  has  an  adequate  vehicle,  Pope 


276  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

lias  not.  Nay,  though  Pope's  genius  for  didactic  poetry 
was  not  less  than  that  of  Horace,  while  his  satirical  power 
was  certainly  greater,  still  one's  taste  receives,  I  cannot  hut 
think,  a  certain  satisfaction  when  one  reads  the  Epistles 
and  Satires  of  Horace,  which  it  fails  to  receive  when  one 
reads  the  Satires  and  Epistles  of  Pope.  Of  such  avail  is 
the  superior  adequacy  of  the  vehicle  used  to  compensate 
even  an  inferiority  of  genius  in  the  user !  In  the  same 
way  Pope  is  at  a  disadvantage  as  compared  with  Addison : 
the  best  of  Addison's  composition  (the  "Coverley  Papers" 
in  the  "  Spectator,"  for  instance)  wears  better  than  the  best 
of  Pope's,  because  Addison  has  in  his  prose  an  intrinsically 
better  vehicle  for  his  genius  than  Pope  in  his  couplet. 
But  Bacon  has  no  such  advantage  over  Shakespeare ;  nor 
has  Milton,  \\Titing  prose  (for  no  contemporary  English 
prose-writer  must  be  matched  with  Milton  except  Milton 
himself),  any  such  advantage  over  Milton  writing  verse : 
indeed,  the  advantage  here  is  all  the  other  way. 

It  is  in  the  prose  remains  of  Guerin — his  journals,  his 
letters,  and  the  striking  composition  which  I  have  already 
mentioned,  the  "  Centaur " — that  his  extraordinary  gift 
manifests  itself.  He  has  a  truly  intei-pretative  faculty; 
the  most  profound  and  delicate  sense  of  the  life  of  ISTature, 
and  the  most  exquisite  felicity  in  finding  expressions  to 
render  that  sense.  To  all  who  love  poetry,  Guerin  deserves 
to  be  something  more  than  a  name ;  and  I  shall  try,  in 
spite  of  the  impossibility  of  doing  justice  to  such  a  master 
of  expression  by  translations,  to  make  my  English  readers 
see  for  themselves  how  gifted  an  organization  his  was,  and 
how  few  artists  have  received  from  Nature  a  more  magical 
faculty  of  interpreting  her. 

In  the  winter  of  the  year  1832  there  was  collected  in 
Brittany,  around  the  well-known  Abbe  Lamennais,  a  sin- 
gular gathering.     At  a  lonely  place,  La  Chenaie,  he  had 


MAURICE    DE    GuilRIN.  277 

foiTnded  a  religious  retreat,  to  which  disciples,  attracted  by 
liis  powers  or  by  liis  reputation,  repaired.  Some  came 
with  the  intention  of  preparing  themselves  for  the  ecclesi- 
astical profession ;  others  merely  to  profit  by  the  society 
and  discourse  of  so  distinguished  a  master.  Among  the 
inmates  were  men  whose  names  have  since  become  known 
to  all  Europe — Lacordaire  and  M.  de  Montalembert ;  there 
were  others,  who  have  acquired  a  reputation,  not  Euro- 
pean, indeed,  but  considerable — the  Abbe  Gerbet,  the 
Abbe  Rohrbacher;  others,  who  have  never  quitted  the 
shade  of  private  life.  The  winter  of  1832  \vas  a  period 
of  crisis  in  the  religious  world  of  France:  Lamennais's 
rupture  with  Rome,  the  condemnation  of  his  opinions  by 
the  Pope,  and  his  revolt  against  that  condenmation,  were 
imminent.  Some  of  his  followers,  like  Lacordaire,  had 
already  resolved  not  to  cross  the  Rubicon  with  their  leader, 
not  to  go  into  rebellion  against  Rome ;  they  were  preparing 
to  separate  from  him.  The  society  of  La  Chenaie  was 
soon  to  dissolve ;  but,  such  as  it  is  shown  to  us  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  its  vohmtary  character,  its  simple  and  severe 
life  in  common,  its  mixture  of  lay  and  clerical  members, 
the  genius  of  its  chiefs,  the  sincerity  of  its  disciples — 
above  all,  its  paramoimt  fervent  interest  in  matters  of 
spiritual  and  religious  concernment — it  offers  a  most  in- 
structive spectacle.  It  is  not  the  spectacle  we  most  of  us 
think  to  find  in  France,  the  France  we  have  imagined 
ti'om  common  English  notions,  fi'om  the  streets  of  Paris, 
from  novels:  it  shows  us  how,  wherever  there  is  gi*eatness 
like  that  of  France,  there  are,  as  its  foundation,  treasures 
Df  fervor,  pnre-mindedness,  and  spirituality  somewhere, 
whether  we  know  of  them  or  not ; — a  store  of  that  which 
Goethe  calls  Halt / — since  greatness  can  ncAcr  be  founded 
upon  frivolity  and  corruption. 

On  the  evcnini'  of  the  ISth  of  Dccouibcr  in  this  year 


278  LIFE   POETRAITS. 

1832,  M.  de  Lamennais  was  talking  to  those  assembled  in 
the  sitting-room  of  La  Chenaie  of  his  recent  journey  to 
Italy.  He  talked  with  all  his  usual  animation ;  "  but," 
writes  one  of  his  hearers,  a  Breton  gentleman,  M.  de  Mar- 
zan,  "  I  soon  became  inattentive  and  absent,  being  sti-uck 
with  the  reserved  attitude  of  a  young  stranger  some  twenty- 
two  years  old,  pale  in  face,  his  black  hair  already  thin  over 
his  temples,  with  a  southern  eye,  in  which  brightness  and 
melancholy  were  mingled.  He  kept  himself  somewhat 
aloof,  seeming  to  avoid  notice  rather  than  to  court  it.  AU 
the  old  faces  of  friends  which  I  found  about  me  at  this  my 
re-entry  into  the  circle  of  La  Chenaie,  failed  to  occupy  me 
so  much  as  the  sight  of  this  stranger,  looking  on,  listening, 
observing,  and  saying  nothing." 

The  unknown  was  Maurice  de  Guerin.  Of  a  noble  but 
poor  family,  having  lost  his  mother  at  six  years  old,  he  had 
been  brought  up  by  his  father,  a  man  saddened  by  his 
wife's  death,  and  austerely  religious,  at  the  chateau  of  Le 
Cay  la,  in  Languedoc.  His  childhood  was  not  gay ;  he  had 
not  the  society  of  other  boys ;  and  solitude,  the  sight  of  his 
father's  gloom,  and  the  habit  of  accompanying  the  cure  of 
the  parish  on  his  rounds  among  the  sick  and  dying,  made 
him  prematurely  grave  and  familiar  with  sorrow.  He  went 
to  school  first  at  Toulouse,  then  at  the  College  Stanislas  at 
Paris,  with  a  temperament  almost  as  unfit  as  Shelley's  for 
common  school  life.  His  youth  was  ardent,  sensitive,  agi- 
tated, and  unhappy.  In  1832  he  procured  admission  to  La 
.Chenaie  to  brace  his  spirit  by  the  teaching  of  Lamennais, 
and  to  decide  M'hether  his  religious  feelings  would  deter- 
mine themselves  into  a  distinct  religious  vocation.  Strong 
and  deep  religious  feelings  he  had,  implanted  in  him  by 
nature,  developed  in  him  by  the  circumstances  of  his  child- 
hood ;  but  he  had  also  (and  here  is  the  key  to  his  character) 
that  temperament  which  opposes  itself  to  the  fixedness  of 


.      MAUEIOE   DE    GUI^RIlSr.  279 

a  religious  vocation,  or  of  any  vocation  of  which  fixedness 
is  an  essential  attribute  ;  a  temperament  mobile,  inconstant, 
eager,  thirsting  for  new  impressions,  abhorring  rules,  as- 
piring to  a  "  renovation  without  end ; "  a  temperament 
common  enough  among  artists,  but  with  which  few  artists, 
who  have  it  to  the  same  degree  as  Guerin,  unite  a  serious- 
ness and  a  sad  intensity  like  his.  After  leaving  school,  and 
before  going  to  La  Chenaie,  he  had  'been  at  home  at  Le 
Cayla  with  his  sister  Eugenie  (a  wonderfully  gifted  person, 
whose  genius  so  competent  a  judge  as  M.  Sainte-Beuve  is 
inclined  to  pronounce  even  superior  to  her  brother's)  and 
his  sister  Eugenie's  friends.  With  one  of  these  friends  he 
had  fallen  in  love — a  slight  and  transient  fancy,  but  which 
had  already  called  his  poetical  powers  into  exercise ;  and 
his  poems  and  fragments,  in  a  certain  gi'cen  note-book  {le 
Cahier  Vert)  which  he  long  continued  to  make  the  deposi- 
tory of  his  thoughts,  and  which  became  famous  among  his 
friends,  he  brought  with  him  to  La  Chenaie.  There  he 
found  among  the  yoimger  members  of  the  Society  several 
who,  like  himself,  had  a  secret  passion  for  poetry  and  lit- 
erature ;  with  these  he  became  intimate,  and  in  his  letters 
and  journal  we  find  him  occupied,  now  with  a  literary  com- 
merce established  with  these  friends,  now  with  the  for- 
tunes, fast  coming  to  a  crisis,  of  the  Society,  and  now  with 
that  for  the  sake  of  which  he  came  to  La  Chenaie — his  re- 
ligious progress  and  the  state  of  his  soul.  •     ■" 

On  Christmas  Day,  1832,  having  then  been  three  weeks 
at  La  Chenaie,  he  writes  thus  of  it  to  a  fi-iend  of  his  fam- 
ily, M.  de  Ba^Tie : 

"  La  Chenaie  is  a  sort  of  oasis  in  the  midst  of  the  steppes 
of  Brittany.  In  front  of  the  chateau  stretches  a  very  large 
garden,  cut  in  two  by  a  terrace  with  a  lime  avenue,  at  the 
end  of  which  is  a  tiny  chapel.  I  am  extremely  fond  of 
this  little  oratory,  where  ooe  breathes  a  twofold  peace — the 


280  LIFE   POETEAITS 

peace  of  solitude  and  the  peace  of  the  Lord.  When  spring 
comes  we  shall  walk  to  prayers  between  two  borders  of 
flowers.  On  the  east  side,  and  only  a  few  yards  from  the 
chateau,  sleeps  a  small  mere  between  two  woods,  where  the 
birds  in  warm  weather  sing  all  day  long ;  and  then — right, 
left,  on  all  sides — woods,  woods,  everywhere  woods.  It 
looks  desolate  just  now  that  all  is  bare  and  the  woods  are 
rust-color,  and  under  this  Brittany  sky,  which  is  always 
clouded  and  so  low  that  it  seems  as  if  it  were  going  to  fall 
on  your  head ;  but  as  soon  as  spring  comes  the  sky  raises 
itself  up,  the  woods  come  to  life  again,  and  everytliing  will 
be  full  of  charm." 

Of  what  La  Chenaie  will  be  when  spring  comes  he  has 
a  foretaste  on  the  3d  of  March. 

"  To-day  "  (he  \^Tites  in  his  journal)  "  has  enchanted  me. 
For  the  first  time  for  a  long  while  the  sun  has  shown  him- 
self in  all  his  beauty.  He  has  made  the  buds  of  the  leaves 
and  flowers  swell,  and  he  has  waked  up  in  me  a  thousand 
liappy  thoughts.  The  clouds  assume  more  and  more  their 
light  and  graceful  shapes,  and  are  sketching,  over  the  blue 
sky,  the  most  charming  fancies.  The  woods  have  not  yet 
got  their  leaves,  but  they  are  taking  an  indescribable  air  of 
life  and  gayety,  wliicli  gives  them  quite  a  new  physiog- 
nomy. Everything  is  getting  ready  for  the  great  festival 
of  Xature." 

Storm  and  snow  adjourn  this  festival  a  little  longer. 
On  the  11th  of  March  he  writes : 

"  It  has  snowed  all  night.  I  have  been  to  look  at  our 
primroses ;  each  of  them  had  its  small  load  of  snow,  and 
was  bowing  its  head  under  its  burden.  These  pretty  flow- 
ers, with  tlieir  rich  yellow  color,  had  a  charaiing  effect 
under  their  white  hoods.  I  saw  wliole  tufts  of  them  roofed 
over  by  a  single  block  of  snow ;  all  these  laughing  flowers 
thus  shrouded  and  leaning  one  upon  another,  made  one 


MAURICE    DE    GUilfeETN.  281 

think  of  a  group  of  young  girls  surprised  by  a  wave,  and 
sheltering  under  a  white  cloth." 

The  burst  of  spring  comes  at  last,  though  late.  On  the 
5th  of  April  we  find  Guerin  "  sitting  in  the  sun  to  pene- 
trate himself  to  the  very  marrow  with  the  divine  spring." 
On  the  3d  of  May,  ^  one  can  actually  see  the  progress  of 
the  green ;  it  has  made  a  start  from  the  garden  to  the 
shrubberies,  it  is  getting  the  upper  hand  all  along  the 
mere ;  it  leaps,  one  may  say,  from  tree  to  tree,  from 
thicket  to  thicket,  in  the  fields  and  on  the  hillsides ;  and  I 
can  see  it  already  arrived  at  the  forest  edge  and  beginning 
to  spread  itself  over  the  broad  back  of  the  forest.  Soon 
ic  will  have  overrun  everything  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
and  all  those  wide  spaces  between  here  and  the  horizon  will 
be  moving  and  sounding  like  one  vast  sea,  a  sea  of  emerald." 

Finally,  on  the  16th  of  May,  he  writes  to  M.  de  Bayne 
that  "  the  gloomy  and  bad  days — bad  because  they  bring 
temptation  by  their  gloom — are,  thanks  to  God  and  the 
spring,  over ;  and  I  see  approaching  a  long  file  of  shining 
and  happy  days,  to  do  me  all  the  good  in  the  world. 
This  Brittany  of  ours,"  he  continues,  "  gives  one  the  idea 
of  the  grayest  and  most  wrinkled  old  woman  possible  sud- 
denly changed  back  by  the  touch  of  a  faiiy's  wand  into  a 
girl  of  twenty,  and  one  of  the  loveliest  in  the  world ;  the 
fine  weather  has  so  decked  and  beautified  the  dear  old 
country."  He  felt,  however,  the  cloudiness  and  cold  of  the 
"  dear  old  country  "  with  all  the  sensitiveness  of  a  child  of 
the  South.  "  What  a  difference,"  he  cries,  "  between  the 
sky  of  Brittany,  even  on  the  finest  day,  and  the  sky  of  our 
South !  Here  the  summer  has,  even  on  its  highdays  and 
holidays,  something  mournful,  overcast,  and  stinted  about 
it.  It  is  like  a  miser  who  is  making  a  show ;  there  is  a 
niggardliness  in  his  magnificence.  Give  me  our  Langue- 
doc  sky,  so  bountiful  of  light,  so  blue,  so  largely  vaulted ! " 


282  LIFE    PORTRArrS. 

And  somewhat  later,  complaining  of  the  short  and  dim 
sunlight  of  a  February  day  in  Paris,  "  What  a  sunshine," 
he  exclaims,  "  to  gladden  eyes  accustomed  to  all  the  wealth 
of  light  of  the  South  ! — aux  larges  et  liberates  effusiotis  de 
lumiere  du  ciel  du  3£idiy 

In  the  long  winter  of  La  Chenaie  his  great  resource  was 
literature.  One  has  often  heard  that  an  educated  French- 
man's reading  seldom  goes  much  beyond  French  and  Latin, 
and  that  he  makes  the  authors  in  these  two  langiaages  his 
sole  literary  standard.  This  may  or  may  not  be  true  of 
Frenchmen  in  general,  but  there  can  be  no  question  as  to 
the  width  of  the  reading  of  Guerin  and  his  friends,  and  as 
to  the  range  of  their  literary  sympathies.  One  of  the  cir- 
cle, Hippolyte  la  Morvonnais — a  poet  who  published  a  vol- 
ume of  verse,  and  died  in  the  prime  of  life — had  a  pas- 
sionate admiration  for  Wordsworth,  and  had  even,  it  is 
said,  made  a  pilgrimage  to  Rydal  Mount  to  visit  him  ;  and 
in  Guerin's  own  reading  I  find,  besides  the  French  names 
of  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  Chateaubriand,  Lamartine,  and 
Victor  Hugo,  the  names  of  Homer,  Dante,  Shakespeare, 
Milton,  and  Goethe ;  and  he  quotes  both  from  Greek  and 
from  English  authors  in  the  original.  His  literary  tact  is 
beautifully  fine  and  true.  "  Every  poet,"  he  writes  to  his 
sister,  "  has  his  own  art  of  poetry  written  on  the  ground  of 
his  own  soul ;  there  is  no  other.  Be  constantly  observing 
Nature  in  her  smallest  details,  and  then  write  as  the  cur- 
rent of  your  thoughts  guides  you — that  is  all."  But  with 
all  this  freedom  from  the  bondage  of  forms  and  rules, 
Guerin  marks  with  perfect  precision  the  faults  of  tlxefr'ee 
French  literature  of  his  time — tl;e  litterature  facile^-2ivA 
judges  the  romantic  school  and  its  prospects  like  a  master : 
"  that  youthful  literature  which  has  put  forth  all  its  blos- 
som prematurely,  and  has  left  itself  a  helpless  prey  to  the 
returning  frost,  stimulated  as  it  has  been  by  the  bui-ning 


MAURICE   DE    GUiKIN.  283 

srni  of  our  century,  hj  this  atmosphere  charged  with  a  peri- 
lous heat,  which  has  over-liastened  every  sort  of  develop- 
ment, and  will  most  likely  reduce  to  a  handful  of  grains 
the  harvest  of  our  age."  And  the  popular  authors — those 
"  whose  name  appears  once  and  disappears  forever,  whose 
books,  unwelcome  to  all  serious  people,  welcome  to  the  rest 
of  the  world,  to  novelty -hunters  and  novel-readers,  fill  with 
vanity  these  vain  souls,  and  then,  falling  from  hands  heavy 
with  the  languor  of  satiety,  drop  forever  into  the  gulf  of 
oblivion ; "  and  those,  more  noteworthy,  "  the  writers  of 
books  celebrated,  and,  as  works  of  art,  deserving  celebrity, 
but  which  have  in  them  not  one  grain  of  that  hidden 
manna,  not  one  of  those  sweet  and  w^holesome  thoughts 
which  nourish  the  human  soul  and  refresh  it  when  it  is 
weary,"  these  he  treats  with  such  severity  that  he  may  in 
some  sense  be  described,  as  he  describes  himself,  as  "  in- 
voking with  his  whole  heart  a  classical  restoration."  He 
is  best  described,  however,  not  as  a  partisan  of  any  school, 
but  as  an  ardent  seeker  for  that  mode  of  expression  which 
is  the  most  natural,  happy,  and  true.  He  writes  to  his 
sister  Eugenie : 

"  I  want  yoii  to  reform  your  system  of  composition  ;  it  is 
too  loose,  too  vague,  too  Lamartinian.  Your  verse  is  too 
sing-song ;  it  does  not  talk  enough.  Form  for  yourself  a 
style  of  your  o-^vn,  which  shall  be  your  real  expression. 
Study  the  French  language  by  attentive  reading,  making 
it  your  care  to  i-emark  constructions,  turns  of  expression, 
delicacies  of  style,  but  without  ever  adopting  the  manner 
of  any  master.  In  the  works  of  these  masters  we  must 
learn  our  language,  but  we  must  use  it  each  in  our"  own 
fashion."  * 

*  Part  of  these  extracts  date  from  a  time  a  little  after  Guerin's  resi- 
dence at  La  Chenaie ;  but  already,  amidst  the  readings  and  conversa- 
tions of  La  Chenaie,  his  literary  judgment  was  perfectly  formed. 


284  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

It  was  not,  however,  to  perfect  his  literary  judgment 
that  Guerin  came  to  La  Chenaie.  The  religious  feeling, 
wliich  was  as  much  a  part  of  his  essence  as  the  passion  for 
Kature  and  the  literary  instinct,  sliows  itself  at  moments 
jealous  of  these  its  rivals,  and  alarmed  at  their  predomi- 
nance. Like  all  powerful  feelings,  it  wants  to  exclude 
every  other  feeling  and  to  be  absolute.  One  Fiiday  in 
April,  after  he  has  been  delighting  himself  with  the  shapes 
of  the  clouds  and  the  progress  of  the  spring,  he  suddenly 
bethinks  himself  that  the  day  is  Good  Friday,  and  exclaims 
in  his  diary : 

"  My  God,  what  is  my  soul  about  that  it  can  thus  go 
running  after  such  fugitive  delights  on  Good  Friday,  on 
this  day  all  filled  with  thy  death  and  our  redemption  ? 
There  is  in  me  I  know  not  what  damnable  spirit,  that 
awakens  in  me  strong  discontents,  and  is  forever  pi'ompt- 
ing  me  to  rebel  against  the  holy  exercises  and  the"  devout 
collectedness  of  soul  which  are  the  meet  preparation  for 
these  great  solemnities  of  our  faith.  O  how  well  can  I 
trace  here  the  old  leaven,  from  which  I  have  not  yet  per- 
fectly cleared  my  soul !  " 

And  again,  in  a  letter  to  M.  de  Marzan  :  "  Of  M^iat,  my 
God,  are  we  made',"  he  cries,  "  that  a  little  verdure  and  a 
few  trees  should  be  enough  to  rob  us  of  our  tranquillity 
and  to  distract  us  from  thy  love?"  And  writing,  three 
days  after  Easter  Sunday,  in  his  journal,  he  records  the 
reception  at  La  Chenaie  of  a  fervent  neophyte,  in  words 
which  seem  to  convey  a  covert  Ulame  of  his  own  want  of 
fervency : 

"  Three  days  have  passed  over  our  heads  since  the  gi-eat 
festival.  One  anniversary  the  less  for  us  yet  to  spend  of 
the  death  and  resurrection  of  our  Saviour !  Every  year 
thus  bears  away  with  it  its  solemn  festivals ;  when  M'ill  the 
everlasting  festival  be  here  ?     I  lia^^e  been  witness  of  a 


MAURICE    DE    GUilRIN.  285 

most  touching  sight ;  Fran9ois  has  brought  ns  one  of  his 
friends  whom  he  has  gained  to  the  faith.  This  neophyte 
joined  us  in  our  exercises  during  the  Holy  week,  and  on 
Easter  day  he  received  the  eommimion  with  us.  Fran9ois 
was  in  raptures.  It  is  a  truly  good  work  which  he  has  thus 
done.  Fran9ois  is  quite  young,  hardly  twenty  years  old  ; 
M.  de  la  M.  is  thirty,  and  is  married.  There  is  something 
most  touching  and  beautifully  simple  in  M.  de  la  M.  letting 
himself  thus  be  brought  to  God  by  quite  a  young  man  ; 
and  to  see  fi-iendship,  on  Fran9ois's  side,  thus  doing  the 
work  of  an  Apostle,  is  not  less  beautiful  and  touching." 

Admiration  for  Lamennais  worked  in  the  same  direction 
•with  this  feeling.  Lamennais  never  appreciated  Guerin  ; 
his  combative,  rigid,  despotic  nature,  of  which  the  charac- 
teristic was  energy,  had  no  affinity  with  Gudrin's  elusive, 
nndulating,  impalpable  nature,  of  which  the  characteristic 
was  delicacy.  He  set  little  store  by  his  new  disciple,  and 
could  hardly  bring  himself  to  understand  what  others 
found  so  remarkable  in  him,  his  own  genuine  feeling 
towards  him  being  one  of  indulgent  compassion.  But  the 
intuition  of  Guerin,  more  disceiTiing  than  the  logic  of  his 
master,  instinctively  felt  what  there  was  commanding  and 
tragic  in  Lamennais's  character,  different  as  this  was  from 
his  own  ;  and  some  of  his  notes  are  among  the  most  inter- 
esting records  of  Lamennais  which  remain. 

" '  Do  you  know  what  it  is,'  M.  Feli  *  said  to  lis  on  the 
evening  of  the  day  before  yesterday,  '  which  makes  man 
the  most  sufferini^  of  all  creatures  ?  It  is  that  he  has  one 
foot  in  the  finite  and  the  other  in  the  infinite,  and  that  he 
is  torn  asunder,  not  by  four  horses,  as  in  the  horrible  old 
times,  but  between  two  worlds.'     Again  he  said  to  us  as 


*  The  familiar  name  given  to  M.  de  Lamennais  by  his  followers  at 
La  Chi'naie. 


286  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

we  heard  the  clock  strike :  '  If  that  clock  knew  that  it  was 
to  be  destroyed  the  next  instant,  it  would  still  keep  striking 
its  hour  until  that  instant  arrived.  My  children,  be  as  the 
clock ;  whatever  may  be  going  to  happen  to  you,  strike 
always  your  houi'.' " 

Another  time  Guerin  writes, 

"  To-day  M.  Fell  startled  us.  He  was  sitting  behind  the 
chapel,  under  the  two  Scotch  firs ;  he  took  his  stick  and 
marked  out  a  grave  on  the  tm"f,  and  said  to  Elie,  '  It  is 
there  I  wish  to  be  buried,  but  no  tombstone !  only  a  sim- 
ple hillock  of  gi-ass.  O,  how  well  I  shall  be  there ! '  Elie 
thought  he  had  a  presentiment  that  his  end  was  near. 
This  is  not  the  first  time  he  has  been  visited  by  such  a  pre- 
sentiment ;  when  he  was  setting  out  for  Rome,  he  said  to 
those  here :  '  I  do  not  expect  ever  to  come  back  to  you ; 
you  must  do  the  good  which  I  have  failed  to  do.'-  He  is 
impatient  for  death." 

Overpowered  by  the  ascendancy  of  Lamennais,  Guerin, 
in  spite  of  his  hesitations,  in  spite  of  his  confession  to  him- 
self that  "  after  a  three  weeks'  close  scrutiny  of  his  soul,  in 
the  hope  of  finding  the  pearl  of  a  religious  vocation  hidden 
in  some  corner  of  it,"  he  had  failed  to  find  what  he  sought, 
took,  at  the  end  of  August,  1833,  a  decisive  step.  He 
joined  the  religious  order  which  Lamennais  had  founded. 
But  at  this  very  moment  the  deepening  displeasure  of 
Ivome  with  Lamennais  determined  the  Bishop  of  Rennes 
to  break  up,  in  so  far  as  it  was  a  religious  congregation, 
the  Society  of  La  Chcnaie,  to  transfer  the  novices  to 
Ploermel,  and  to  place  them  under  other  superintendence. 
In  September,  Lamennais,  "who  had  not  yet  ceased," 
writes  M.  de  Marzan,  a  fervent  Catholic,  "  to  be  a  Chris- 
tian and  a  priest,  took  leave  of  his  beloved  colony  of  La 
Chenaie,  with  the  anguish  of  a  general  who  disbands  his 
army  down  to  the  last  recruit,  and  withdraws  annihilated 


MAURICE   DE    GUilRIIT.  287 

from  the  field  of  battle."  Guerin  went  to  Ploermel.  But 
here,  in  the  seclusion  of  a  real  religious  house,  l^p  instantly 
perceived  how  alien  to  a  spirit  like  his — a  spirit  which, 
as  he  himself  says  somewhere,  "  had  need  of  the  open  air, 
wanted  to  see  the  sim  and  the  flowers  " — was  the  constraint 
and  monotony  of  a  monastic  life,  when  Lamennais's  genius 
was  no  longer  present  to  enliven  this  life  for  him.  On  the 
Yth  of  October  he  renounced  the  novitiate,  believing  him- 
self a  partisan  of  Lamennais  in  his  quarrel  with  Rome,  re- 
proaching the  life  he  had  left  with  demanding  passive 
obedience  instead  of  trying  "  to  put  in  practice  the  admir- 
able alliance  of  order  with  liberty,  and  of  variety  with 
unity,"  and  declaring  that,  for  his  part,  he  preferred  taking 
the  chances  of  a  life  of  adventure  to  submitting  himself  to 
be  ^^  garotte  ^ar  un  reglement — tied  hand  and  foot  by  a 
set  of  rules."  In  real  truth,  a  life  of  adventure,  or  rather 
a  life  free  to  wander  at  its  own  will,  was  that  to  which  his 
nature  irresistibly  impelled  him. 

For  a  career  of  adventure,  the  inevitable  field  was  Paris. 
But  before  this  career  began,  there  came  a  stage,  the 
smoothest,  perhaps,  and  the  most  happy  in  the  short  life 
of  Guerin.  M.  la  Morvonnais,  one  of  his  La  Chenaie 
friends — some  years  older  than  Guerin,  and  married  to  a 
vrde  of  singular  sweetness  and  charm — had  a  house  by  the 
seaside  at  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  beautiful  rivers  of 
Brittany,  the  Arguenon.  He  asked  Guerin,  when  he  left 
Ploermel,  to  come  and  stay  with  him  at  this  place,  called 
Le  Yal  de  1' Arguenon,  and  Guerin  spent  the  winter  of 
1833-4:  there.  I  gmdge  every  word  about  Le  Val  and  its 
inmates  which  is  not  Guerin's  own,  so  charming  is  the  pic- 
ture he  draws  of  them,  so  truly  does  his  talent  find  itself 
in  its  best  vein  as  he  draws  it. 

"  How  full  of  goodness"  (he  writes  in  his  journal  on  the 
7th  of  December)  "  is  Providence  to  me !     For  fear  the 


288  LIFE   POETRAITS. 

sudden  passage  from  the  mild  and  temperate  air  of  a  re- 
ligious life  to  the  torrid  clime  of  the  world  should  be  too 
trying  for  my  soul,  it  has  conducted  me,  after  I  have  left 
my  sacred  shelter,  to  a  house  planted  on  the  frontier  be- 
tween the  two  regions,  where,  without  being  in  solitude, 
one  is  not  yet  in  the  world ;  a  house  whose  windows  look 
on  the  one  side  towards  the  plain  where  the  tumult  of  men 
is  rocking,  on  the  other  towards  the  wilderness  where  the 
servants  of  God  are  chanting.  I  intend  to  write  down  the 
record  of  my  sojourn  here,  for  the  days  here  spent  are  full 
of  happiness,  and  I  know  that  in  the  time  to  come  I  shall 
often  turn  back  to  the  story  of  these  past  felicities.  A 
man,  pious,  and  a  poet ;  a  woman,  whose  spirit  is  in  such 
perfect  sympathy  with  his  that  you  would  say  they  had 
but  one  being  between  them ;  a  child,  called  Marie  like 
her  mother,  and  who  sends,  like  a  star,  the  first  rays  of  her 
love  and  thought  through  the  white  cloud  of  infancy ;  a 
simple  life  in  an  old-fashioned  house ;  the  ocean,  which 
comes  morning  and  evening  to  bring  us  its  harmonies ;  and 
lastly,  a  wanderer  who  descends  from  Carmel  and  is  going 
on  to  Babylon,  and  who  has  laid  down  at  this  threshold 
his  staff  and  his  sandals,  to  take  his  seat  at  the  hospitable 
table ; — ^liere  is  matter  to  make  a  biblical  poem  of,  if  I  could 
only  describe  things  as  I  can  feel  them. 

Every  line  written  by  Guerin  during  this  stay  at  Le  Yal 
is  worth  quoting,  but  I  have  only  room  for  one  extract 
more: 

"  Never "  (he  writes,  a  fortnight  later,  on  the  20th  of 
December),  "  never  have  I  tasted  so  inwardly  and  deeply 
the  happiness  of  home-life.  All  the  little  details  of  this 
life  which  in  their  succession  make  up  the  day,  are  to  me 
so  many  stages  of  a  continuous  charm  carried  from  one  end 
of  the  day  to  the  other.  The  morning  greeting,  which  in 
some  sort  renews  the  pleasure  of  the  fii'st  arrival,  for  the 


MAURICE   DE    GUIERIN-.  289 

words  with  which  one  meets  are  almost  the  same,  and  the 
separation  at  night,  through  the  hom's  of  darkness  and  mi- 
certainty,  does  not  ill  represent  longer  separations ;  then 
breakfast,  during  which  you  have  the  fresh  enjoyment  of 
having  met  together  again ;  the  stroll  afterwards,  when  we 
go  out  and  bid  I^s^ature  good-morning;  the  return,  and 
setting  to  work  in  an  old  panelled  chamber  looking  out 
on  the  sea,  inaccessible  to  all  the  stir  of  the  house,  a  per- 
fect sanctuary  of  labor ;  dinner,  to  which  we  are  called,  not 
by  a  bell  which  reminds  one  too  much  of  school  or  a  great 
house,  but  by  a  pleasant  voice ;  the  gayety,  the  merriment, 
the  talk  flitting  from  one  subject  to  another  and  never 
dropping  so  long  as  the  meal  lasts ;  the  crackling  fire  of 
diy  branches  to  which  we  draw  our  chairs  directly  after- 
wards, the  kind  words  that  are  spoken  round  the  warm 
flame  which  sings  while  we  talk ;  and  then,  if  it  is  fine, 
the  walk  by  the  seaside,  when  the  sea  has  for  its  visitors  a 
mother  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  this  child's  father  and 
a  stranger,  each  of  these  two  last  with  a  stick  in  his  hand  ; 
the  rosy  lips  of  the  little  girl,  which  keep  talking  at  the 
same  time  with  the  waves — now  and  then  tears  shed  by  her 
and  cries  of  childish  fright  at  the  edge  of  the  sea ;  our 
thoughts,  the  father's  and  mine,  as  we  stand  and  look  at 
the  mother  and  child  smiling  at  one  another,  or  at  the 
child  in  tears  and  the  mother  trying  to  comfort  it  by  her 
caresses  and  exhortations ;  the  Ocean,  going  on  all  the 
while  rolling  up  his  waves  and  noises ;  the  dead  boughs 
which  we  go  and  cut,  here  and  there,  out  of  the  copse- 
wood,  to  make  a  quick  and  bright  fire  when  we  get  home — 
this  little  taste  of  the  woodman's  calling  which  brings  us 
closer  to  Xature  and  makes  us  think  of  M.  Feli's  eager 
fondness  for  the  same  work  ;  the  hours  of  study  and  poet- 
ical flow  which  carry  us  to  supper-time  ;  this  meal,  which 
summons  us  by  the  same  gentle  voice  as  its  predecessor, 


290  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

and  wliicli  is  passed  amid  the  same  joys,  only  less  loud, 
because  evening  sobers  everything,  tones  everything  dowTi ; 
then  our  evening,  ushered  in  by  the  blaze  of  a  cheerful 
fire,  and  which  with  its  alternations  of  reading  and  talking 
brings  us  at  last  to  bedtime  ; — to  all  the  charms  of  a  day  so 
spent  add  the  dreams  which  follow  it,  and  your  imagina- 
tion will  still  fall  far  short  of  these  home-joys  in  their  de- 
lightful reality," 

I  said  the  foregoing  should  be  my  last  extract,  but  who 
could  resist  this  picture  of  a  January  evening  on  the  coast 
of  Brittany  ?  ■ 

"  All  the  sky  is  covered  over  with  gray  clouds,  just  sil- 
vered at  the  edges.  The  sun,  who  departed  a  few  minutes 
ago,  has  left  behind  him  enough  light  to  temper  for  awhile 
the  black  shadows,  and  to  soften  down,  as  it  were,  the  ap- 
proach of  night.  The  winds  are  hushed,  and  the  tranquil 
ocean  sends  up  to  me,  w^hen  I  go  out  on  the  doorstep  to 
listen,  only  a  melodious  murmur,  which  dies  away  in  the 
soul  like  a  beautiful  wave  on  the  beach.  The  birds,  the 
first  to  obey  the  nocturnal  influence,  make  their  way  to- 
wards the  woods,  and  you  hear  the  rustle  of  their  wings  in 
the  clouds.  The  copses  which  cover  the  whole  hillside  of 
Le  Yal,  which  all  the  day-time  are  alive  with  the  chii-p  of 
the  wren,  the  laughing  whistle  of  the  woodpecker,"^'  and 
the  different  notes  of  a  multitude  of  birds,  have  no  longer 
any  sound  in  their  paths  and  thickets,  unless  it  be  the  pro- 
longed high  call  of  the  blackbirds  at  play  with  one  another 
and  chasing  one  another,  after  all  the  other  birds  have  their 
heads  safe  under  their  wings.  The  noise  of  man,  always 
the  last  to  be  silent,  dies  gradually  out  over  the  face  of  the 
fields.     The  general  murmur  fades  away,  and  one  hears 


*  "The  woodpecker  lauf/Ti*,^''  says  White  of  Selbome :  and  here  is 
Gucrin,  in  Brittany,  confirming  his  testimony. 


MAURICE   DE   GUilRIN.  291 

hardly  a  sound  except  what  comes  from  the  villages  and 
hamlets,  in  which,  up  till  far  into  the  night,  there  are 
cries  of  children  and  barking  of  dogs.  Silence  wraps 
me  round ;  everything  seeks  repose  except  this  pen  of 
mine,  which  perhaps  disturbs  the  rest  of  some  living 
atom  asleep  in  a  crease  of  my  notebook,  for  it  makes 
its  light  scratching  as  it  puts  do^vu  these  itile  thoughts. 
Let  it  stop,  then  !  for  all  I  wi"ite,  have  written,  or  shall 
write,  will  never  be  worth  setting  against  the  sleep  of  an 
atom." 

On  the  first  of  Febiniary  we  find  him  in  a  lodging  at 
Paris.  "  I  enter  the  world  "  (such  are  the  last  words  writ- 
ten in  his  journal  at  Le  Val)  "with  a  secret  horror."  His 
outward  histoiy  for  the  next  five  years  is  soon  told.  He 
found  himself  in  Paris,  poor,  fastidious,  and  with  health 
which  already,  no  doubt,  felt  the  obscure  presence  of  the 
malady  of  which  he  died — consumption.  One  of  his  Brit- 
tany acquaintances  introduced  him  to  editors,  tried  to  en- 
gage him  in  the  periodical  literature  of  Paris ;  and  so  un- 
mistakable was  Guerin's  talent,  that  even  his  first  essays  were 
immediately  accepted.  But  Guerin's  genius  was  of  a  kind 
which  unfitted  him  to  get  his  bread  in  this  manner.  At  first 
he  was  pleased  with  the  notion  of  living  by  his  pen :  "^d  rCai 
qiCd  ecrire^"^  he  says  to  his  sister — "  I  have  only  got  to  write." 
But  to  a  nature  like  his,  endued  with  the  passion  for  per- 
fection, the  necessity  to  produce,  to  produce  constantly,  to 
produce  whether  in  the  vein  or  out  of  the  vein,  to  produce 
something  good  or  bad  or  middling,  as  it  may  happen,  but 
at  all  events  sometJiing — is  the  most  intolerable  of  tortures. 
To  escape  from  it  he  betook  himself  to  that  common  but 
most  perfidious  refuge  of  men  of  letters,  that  refuge  to 
which  Goldsmith  and  poor  Hartley  Coleridge  had  betaken 
themselves  before  him — the  profession  of  teaching.  In 
September,  1834:,  he  procured  an  engagement  at  the  Col- 


292  LIFE    PORTE  AITS. 

lege  Stanislas,  where  lie  had  himseK  been  educated.  It 
was  vacation-time,  and  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  teach  a 
small  class  composed  of  boys  who  did  not  go  home  for  the 
holidays — in  his  own  words,  "  scholars  left  like  sick  sheep 
in  the  fold,  while  the  rest  of  the  flock  are  frisking  in  the 
fields."  After  the  vacation  he  was  kept  on  at  the  College 
as  a  supernumerary.  "  The  ig^aster  of  the  fifth  class  has 
asked  for  a  month's  leave  of  absence ;  I  am  taking  his 
place,  and  by  this  work  I  get  one  hundred  francs  (£4).  I 
have  been  looking  about  for  pupils  to  give  private  lessons 
to,  and  I  have  found  three  or  four.  Schoolwork  and  pri- 
vate lessons  together  fill  my  day  from  half-past  seven  in 
the  morning  till  half -past  nine  at  night.  The  college  din- 
ner serves  me  for  breakfast,  and  I  go  and  dine  in  the  even- 
ing at  twenty-four  sous,  as  a  young  man  beginning  life 
should."  To  better  his  position  in  the  hierarchy  of  public 
teachers,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  take  the  degree 
of  agrege-es-lettres,  corresponding  to  our  degree  of  Master 
of  Arts ;  and  to  his  heavy  work  in  teaching  there  was  thus 
added  that  of  preparing  for  a  severe  examination.  The 
drudgery  of  this  life  was  very  irksome  to  him,  although 
less  insupportable  than  the  drudgery  of  the  profession  of 
letters ;  inasmuch  as  to  a  sensitive  man,  like  Guerin,  to 
silence  his  genius  is  more  tolerable  than  to  hackney  it. 
Still  the  yoke  wore  him  deeply,  and  he  had  moments  of 
bitter  revolt :  he  continued,  however,  to  bear  it  with  reso- 
lution, and  on  the  whole  with  patience,  for  four  years. 
On  the  15th  of  Xovember,  1838,  he  married  a  young  Cre- 
ole lady  of  some  fortune.  Mademoiselle  Caroline  de  Ger- 
vain,  "  whom,"  to  use  his  oa\ti  words,  "  Destiny,  who  loves 
these  surprises,  has  wafted  from  the  farthest  Indies  into 
my  arms."  The  marriage  was  happy,  and  it  ensured  to 
Guerin  liberty  and  leisure ;  but  now  "  the  blind  Fury  with 
the  abhorred  shears,"  was  hard  at  hand.     Consimiptiou  de- 


MAURICE    DE    GUERIN.  293 

clared  itself  in  liim :  "  I  pass  my  life,"  he  writes,  witli  his 
old  playfulness  and  calm,  to  his  sister,  on  the  8th  of  April, 
1839,  "  within  my  bed-curtains,  and  wait  patiently  enough, 
thanks  to  Caro's  *  goodness,  books,  and  di-eams,  for  the  re- 
covery which  the  sunshine  is  to  bring  with  it."  In  search 
of  this  sunshine  he  was  taken  to  his  native  country,  Lan- 
guedoc,  but  in  vain.  He  died  at  Le  Cayla  on  the  19th  of 
July,  1839. 

The  vicissitudes  of  his  inward  life  during  these  five  years 
were' more  considerable.  His  opinions  and  tastes  under- 
went great,  or  what  seemed  to  be  great,  changes.  He  came 
to  Paris  the  ardent  partisan  of  Lamennais :  even  in  April, 
1834,  after  Rome  had  finally  condemned  Lamennais — "  To- 
night there  will  go  forth  from  Paris,"  he  writes,  "  with  his 
face  set  to  the  west,  a  man  whose  every  step  I  would  fain 
follow,  and  who  returns  to  the  desert  for  which  I  sigh.  M. 
Fell  departs  this  evening  for  La  Chenaie,"  But  in  Oc- 
tober, 1835 — "  I  assure  you,"  he  writes  to  his  sister,  "  I  am 
at  last  weaned  from  M.  de  Lamennais ;  one  does  not  re- 
main a  babe  and  suckling  forever ;  I  am  perfectly  freed 
from  his  influence."  There  was  a  greater  change  than  this. 
In  1834  the  main  cause  of  Guerin's  aversion  to  the  literature 
of  the  French  romantic  school,  was  that  this  literature, 
having  had  a  religious  origin  had  ceased  to  be  religious  : 
"  it  has  forgotten,"  he  says,  "  the  house  and  the  admoni- 
tions of  its  Father."  But  his  friend,  M.  de  Marzan,  tells 
us  of  a  "  deplorable  revolution"  which,  by  1836,  had  taken 
place  in  him.  Guerin  had  become  ultimate  with  the  chiefs 
of  this  very  literature  ;  he  no  longer  went  to  church ;  "  the 
bond  of  a  common  faith,  in  which  our  fi-iendship  had  its 
birth,  existed  between  us  no  longer."  Then,  again,  "  this 
interregnum  was  not  destined  to  last."     Reconverted  to  his 

His  wife. 


294  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

old  faith  by  snflFering  and  by  the  pious  efforts  of  his  sister 
Eugenie,  Guerin  died  a  Catholic.  His  feelings  about  so- 
ciety underwent  a  like  change.  After  "  entering  the  world 
with  a  secret  horror,"  after  congratulating  himself  when  he 
had  been  some  months  at  Paris  on  being  "  disengaged  from 
the  social  tumult,  out  of  the  reach  of  those  blows  which, 
when  I  live  in  the  thick  of  the  world,  bruise  me,  irritate 
me,  or  utterly  cnish  me,"  M.  Sainte-Beuve  tells  us  of 
him,  two  years  afterwards,  appearing  in  society  "  a  man 
of  the  world,  elegant,  even  fashionable;  a  talker' who 
could  hold  his  own  against  the  most  brilliant  talkers  of 
Paris." 

In  few  natures,  however,  is  there  really  such  essential 
consistency  as  in  Guerin's.  He  says  of  himself,  in  the  very 
beginning  of  his  journal :  "  I  owe  everything  to  poetry,  for 
there  is  no  other  name  to  give  to  the  sum  total  of  my 
thoughts ;  I  owe  to  it  whatever  I  now  have  pure,  lofty, 
and  solid  in  my  soul ;  I  owe  to  it  all  my  consolations  in  the 
past ;  I  shall  probably  owe  to  it  my  f  utm-e."  Poetry,  the 
poetical  instinct,  was  indeed  the  basis  of  his  nature ;  but 
to  say  so  thus  absolutely  is  not  quite  enough.  One  aspect 
of  poetry  fascinated  Guerin's  imagination  and  held  it  pris- 
oner. Poetry  is  the  interpretress  of  the  natural  world, 
and  she  is  the  interpretress  of  the  moral  world ;  it  was  as 
the  interpretress  of  the  natural  world  that  she  had  Guerin 
for  her  mouthpiece.  To  make  magically  near  and  real  the 
life  of  Nature,  and  man's  life  only  so  far  as  it  is  a  part  of 
that  Nature,  was  his  faculty  ;  a  facidty  of  naturalistic,  not 
of  moral  intei-pretation.  This  faculty  always  has  for  its 
basis  a  peculiar  temperament,  an  extraordinary  delicacy  of 
organization  and  susceptibility  to  impressions ;  in  exercising 
it  the  poet  is  in  a  great  degree  passive  (Wordsworth  thus 
speaks  of  a  -wise  passwertess) :  he  aspires  to  be  a  sort  of 
hiunan  ^olian-harp,  catching  and  rendering  every  rustle 


MAURICE    DE    GuilRIN-.  295 

of  Xature.  To  assist  at  the  evolution  of  the  whole  life  of 
the  world  is  his  craving,  and  intimately  to  feel  it  all : 

"  the  glow,  the  thrill  of  life, 
Where,  where  do  these  abound  ?  " 

is  what  he  asks :  he  resists  being  riveted  and  held  station- 
ary by  any  single  impression,  but  would  be  borne  on  for- 
ever down  an  enchanted  stream.  He  goes  into  religion 
and  out  of  religion,  into  society  and  out  of  society,  not 
from  the  motives  which  impel  men  in  general,  but  to  feel 
what  it  is  all  like ;  he  is  thus  hardly  a  moral  agent,  and, 
like  the  passive  and  ineffectual  Uranus  of  Keats's  poem, 
he  may  say : 

*'  I  am  but  a  voice  ; 
My  life  is  but  the  life  of  winds  and  tides ; 
No  more  than  winds  and  tides  can  I  avail." 

He  hovers  over  the  tumult  of  life,  but  does  not  really  put 
his  hand  to  it. 

No  one  has  expressed  the  aspirations  of  this  tempera- 
ment better  than  Guerin  himself.  In  the  last  year  of  his 
life  he  writes : 

"  I  return,  as  you  see,  to  my  old  brooding  over  the  world 
of  Nature,  that  line  which  my  thoughts  irresistibly  take ; 
a  sort  of  passion  which  gives  me  enthusiasm,  teai's,  bursts 
of  joy,  and  an  eternal  food  for  musing;  and  yet  I  am 
neither  philosophei-,  nor  naturalist,  nor  anything  learned 
whatsoever.  There  is  one  word  which  is  the  God  of  my 
imagination,  the  tyrant,  I  ought  rather  to  say,  that  fasci- 
nates it,  lures  it  onward,  gives  it  work  to  do  without  ceas- 
ing, and  will  finally  carry  it  I  know  not  where ;  the  word 

And  in  one  place  in  his  journal  he  says : 

"My  imagination  welcomes  every  dream,  every  impres- 


296  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

sion,  without  attaching  itself  to  any,  and  goes  on  forever 
seeking  something  new." 

And  again,  in  another :  . 

"  The  longer  I  live,  and  the  clearer  I  discern  between 
true  and  false  in  society,  the  more  does  the  inclination  to 
live,  not  as  a  savage  or  a  misanthrope,  but  as  a  solitary  man 
oh  the  frontiers  of  society,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  world, 
gain  strength  and  grow  in  me.  The  birds  come  and  go 
and  make  nests  around  our  habitations,  they  are  fellow- 
citizens  of  our  farms  and  hamlets  with  us  ;  but  they  take 
their  flight  in  a  heaven  which  is  boundless,  but  the  hand  of 
God  alone  gives  and  measures  to  them  their  daily  food,  but 
they  build  their  nests  in  the  heart  of  the  thick  bushes,  or 
hang  them  in  the  height  of  the  trees.  So  would  I,  too, 
live,  hovering  round  society,  and  having  always  at  my  back 
a  field  of  liberty  vast  as  the  sky." 

In  the  same  spirit  he  longed  for  travel.  "  When  one  is 
a  wanderer,"  he  writes  to  his  sister,  "  one  feels  that  one 
fulfils  the  true  condition  of  humanity."  And  the  last  en- 
try in  his  journal  is — "  The  stream  of  travel  is  full  of  de- 
light.    O,  who  will  set  me  adrift  on  this  Kile  !  " 

Assuredly  it  is  not  in  this  temperament  that  the  active 
virtues  have  their  rise.  On  the  contrary,  this  tempera- 
ment, considered  in  itself  alone,  indisposes  for  the  dis- 
charge of  them.  Something  morbid  and  excessive,  as 
manifested  in  Gucrin,  it  undoubtedly  has.  In  him,  as  in 
Keats,  and  as  in  another  youth  of  genius,  whose  name,  but 
the  other  day  unheard  of,  Lord  Houghton  has  so  grace- 
fully written  in  the  history  of  English  poetry — David 
Gray — the  temperament,  the  talent  itself,  is  deeply  influ- 
enced by  their  mysterious  malady ;  the  temperament  is 
devouring  ;  it  uses  vital  power  too  hard  and  too  fast,  pay- 
ing the  penalty  in  long  hours  of  unutterable  exhaustion 
and  in  premature  death.     The  intensity  of  Guerin's  dc' 


MAURICE   DE    GUiRIN.  297 

pression  is  described  to  us  by  Guorin  himself  with  the  same 
incomparable  touch  with  which  he  describes  happier  feel- 
ings ;  far  of tener  than  any  pleasurable  sense  of  his  gift  he 
has  "  the  sense  profound,  near,  immense,  of  my  misery,  of 
my  inward  poverty."  And  again :  "  My  inward  misery 
gains  upon  me ;  I  no  longer  dai"e  look  within."  And  on 
another  day  of  gloom  he  does  look  within,  and  here  is  the 
terrible  analysis : 

"  Craving,  unquiet,  seeing  only  by  glimpses,  my  spirit 
is  stricken  by  all  those  ills  which  are  the  sure  fi'uit  of  a 
youth  doomed  never  to  ripen  into  manhood.  I  grow  old 
and  wear  myself  out  in  the  most  futile  mental  strainings, 
and  make  no  progress.  My  head  seems  dying,  and  when 
the  wind  blows  I  fancy  I  feel  it,  as  if  I  were  a  tree,  blow- 
ing througli  a  number  of  withered  branches  in  my  top. 
Study  is  intolerable  to  me,  or  rather  it  is  quite  out  of  my 
power.  Mental  work  brings  on,  not  drowsiness,  but  an  ir- 
ritable and  nervous  disgust  which  drives  me  out,  I  know 
not  where,  into  the  streets  and  public  places.  The  Spring, 
whose  delights  used  to  come  every  year  stealthily  and  mys- 
teriously to  charm  me  in  iny  retreat,  crushes  me  this  year 
under  a  weight  of  sudden  hotness.  I  should  be  glad  of 
any  event  which  delivered  me  from  the  situation  in  which 
I  am.  If  I  were  free  I  would  embark  for  some  distant 
country  where  I  could  begin  life  anew." 

Such  is  this  temperament  in  the  frequent  hours  when 
the  sense  of  its  own  weakness  and  isolation  crushes  it  to 
the  ground.  Certainly  it  was  not  for  Guerin's  happiness, 
or  for  Keats's,  as  men  count  happiness,  to  be  as  they  were. 
Still  the  very  excess  and  predominance  of  their  temper- 
ament has  given  to  the  fruits  of  their  genius  an  unique 
brilliancy  and  flavor.  I  have  said  that  poetiy  interprets 
in  two  ways  ;  it  interprets  by  expressing  with  magical  fe- 
licity the  physiognomy  and  movement  of  the  outward 
13* 


298  LIFE   POETRATTS. 

world,  and  it  interprets  by  expressing,  with  inspired  con- 
viction, the  ideas  and  laws  of  the  inward  world  of  man's 
moral  and  spiritual  natme.  In  other  words,  poetry  is  in- 
terpretative both  by  having  natural  mojgic  in  it,  and  by 
having  moral  'profundity.  In  both  ways  it  illuminates 
man ;  it  gives  him  a  satisfying  sense  of  reality ;  it  recon- 
ciles him  with  himself  and  the  universe.  Thus  ^schy- 
lus's  " BpdaavTi  iraOelv^^  and  his  '■'■  avrjptO^ov  yiXacrfia^^  are 
alike  interpretative.  Shakespeare  intei'prets  both  when  he 
says, 

' '  Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen, 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovran  eye  ; " 

and  when  he  says, 

"  There's  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough-hew  them  as  we  wilL" 

These  great  poets  unite  in  themselves  the  faculty  of  both 
kinds  of  interpretation,  the  naturalistic  and  the  moral. 
But  it  is  observable  that  in  the  poets  who  unite  both  kinds, 
the  latter  (the  moral)  usually  ends  by  making  itself  the 
master.  In  Shakespeare  the  two  kinds  seem  wonderfully 
to  balance  one  another ;  but  even  in  him  the  balance  leans ; 
his  expression  tends  to  become  too  little  sensuous  and  sim- 
ple, too  much  intellectualized.  The  same  thing  may  be  yet 
more  strongly  affirmed  of  Lucretius  and  of  Wordsworth. 
In  Shelley  there  is  not  a  balance  of  the  two  gifts,  nor  even 
a  co-existence  of  them,  but  there  is  a  passionate  straining 
after  them  both,  and  this  is  what  makes  Shelley,  as  a  man, 
so  interesting.  I  will  not  now  inquire  how  much  Shelley 
achieves  as  a  poet,  but  whatever  he  achieves,  he  in  general 
fails  to  achieve  natural  magic  in  his  expression ;  in  Mr. 
Palgi'ave's  charming  "  Treasury  "  may  be  seen  a  gallery  of 


MAURICE    DE    GUl^RIN.  299 

his  failures.*  But  in  Keats  and  Guerin,  in  whom  the 
faculty  of  naturalistic  interpretation  is  overpoweringly  pre- 
dominant, the  natural  magic  is  perfect ;  when  they  speak 
of  the  world  they  speak  like  Adam  naming  by  divine  in- 
spiration the  creatures  ;  their  expression  corresponds  with 
the  thing's  essential  reality.  Even  between  Keats  and 
Guerin,  however,  there  is  a  distinction  to  be  drawn. 
Keats  has,  above  all,  a  sense  of  what  is  pleasurable  and 
open  in  the  life  of  Is'ature;  for  him  she  is  the  Alma 
Parens:  his  expression  has,  therefore,  more  than  Gue- 
rin's,  something  genial,  outward,  and  sensuous.  Guerin 
has  above  all  a  sense  of  what  there  is  adorable  and  secret 
in  the  life  of  Nature ;  for  him  she  is  the  Magna  Parens: 
his  expression  has,  therefore,  more  than  Keats's,  something 
mystic,  inward,  and  profound. 

So  he  lived  like  a  man  possessed  ;  with  his  eye  not  on 
his  own  career,  not  on  the  public,  not  on  fame,  but  on  the 
Isis  whose  veil  he  had  uplifted.  lie  published  nothing: 
"  There  is  more  power  and  beauty,"  he  writes,  "  in  the 
well-kept  secret  of  one's  self  and  one's  thoughts,  than  in 
the  display  of  a  whole  heaven  that  one  may  have  inside 
one."  "  My  spirit,"  he  answers  the  friends  who  urge  him 
to  write,  "  is  of  the  home-keeping  order,  and  has  no  fancy 
for  adventure ;  literary  adventure  is  above  all  distasteful 
to  it ;  for  this,  indeed  (let  me  say  so  without  the  least  self- 
sufficiency),  it  has  a  contempt.     The  literary  career  seems 

*  Compare,  for  example,  bis  "Lines  Written  in  the  Euganean  HUls," 
with  Keats's  "  Ode  to  Autumn"  ("  Golden  Treasury,"  pp  256,  284).  The 
latter  piece  renders  Nature ;  the  former  tnes  to  render  her.  I  will  not 
deny,  however,  that  Shelley  has  natural  magic  in  his  rhythm  ;  what  I 
deny  is,  that  he  has  it  in  his  languaj^e.  It  always  seems  to  me  that 
the  right  sphere  for  Shelley's  genius  was  the  sphere  of  music,  not  of 
poetry ;  the  medium  of  sounds  he  can  master,  but  to  master  the  more 
difficult  medium  of  words  he  has  neither  intellectual  force  enough  not 
sanity  enough. 


300  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

to  mc  unreal,  both  in  its  own  essence  and  in  tlie  rewards 
wliicli  one  seeks  from  it,  and  therefore  fatally  marred  by 
a  secret  absurdity."  His  acquaintances,  and  among  them 
distinguished  men  of  letters,  full  of  admiration  for  the 
originality  and  delicacy  of  his  talent,  laughed  at  his  self- 
depreciation,  warmly  assured  him  of  his  powers.  He  re- 
ceived their  assurances  with  a  mournful  incredulity,  which 
contrasts  curiously  with  the  self-assertion  of  poor  David 
Gray,  whom  I  just  now  mentioned.  "  It  seems  to  me  in- 
tolerable," he  wintes,  "  to  appear  to  men  other  than  one 
appears  to  God.  My  worst  torture  at  this  moment  is  the 
Over-estimate  which  generous  friends  form  of  me.  We  are 
told  that  at  the  last  judgment  the  secret  of  all  consciences 
will  be  laid  bare  to  the  universe ;  would  that  mine  were  so 
this  day,  and  that  every  passer-by  could  see  me  as  I  am ! " 
"  High  above  my  head,"  he  says  at  another  time,  "  far,  far 
away,  I  seem  to  hear  the  murmur  of  that  world  of  thought 
and  feeling  to  which  I  aspire  so  often,  but  where  I  can 
never  attain.  I  think  of  those  of  my  own  age  who  have 
wings  strong  enough  to  reach  it,  but  I  think  of  them  with- 
out jealousy,  and  as  men  on  earth  contemplate  the  elect 
and  their  felicity."  And,  criticising  his  own  composition, 
"  When  I  begin  a  subject,  my  self-conceit "  (says  this  ex- 
quisite artist)  "  imagines  I  am  doing  wonders ;  and  when  I 
have  finished,  I  see  nothing  but  a  wretched  made-up  imi- 
tation, composed  of  odds  and  ends  of  color  stolen  from 
other  people's  palates,  and  tastelessly  mixed  together  on 
mine."  Such  was  his  passion  for  perfection^  his  disdain 
for  all  poetical  work  not  pei-fectly  adequate  and  felicitous. 
The  magic  of  expression  to  which  by  the  force  of  this  pas- 
sion he  won  his  way,  will  make  tlie  name  of  Maurice  de 
Guerin  remembered  in  literature. 

I  have  already  mentioned  the  "  Centaur,"  a  sort  of  prose 
poem  by  Guerin,  which  Madame  Sand  published  after  his 


MAURICE  DE  Gui;Ri]sr.  301 

death.  The  idea  of  this  composition  came  to  him,  M. 
Sainte-Beuve  says,  in  the  course  of  some  visits  which  he 
made  with  his  friend,  M.  Trebutien,  a  learned  antiquarian, 
to  the  Museum  of  Antiquities  in  the  Louvre.  The  free 
and  wild  life  which  the  Greeks  expressed  bj  such  crea- 
tions as  the  Centaur  had,  as  we  might  well  expect,  a  strong 
chann  for  him ;  under  the  same  inspiration  he  composed 
a  "  Bacchante,"  which  was  meant  by  him  to  form  part  of 
a  prose  poem  on  the  adventures  of  Bacchus  in  India. 
Ileal  as  M'as  the  affinity  which  Guerin's  nature  had  for 
these  subjects,  I  doubt  whether,  in  treating  them,  he  would 
have  foimd  the  full  and  final  employment  of  his  talent. 
But  the  beauty  of  his  "  Centaur "  is  extraordinary ;  in  its 
whole  conception  and  expression  this  piece  has  in  a  wonder- 
ful degree  that  natural  magic  of  which  I  have  said  so  much, 
and  the  rhythm  has  a  charm  which  bewitches  even  a 
foreigner.  An  old  Centaur  on  his  mountain,  is  supposed 
to  relate  to  Melampus,  a  human  questioner,  the  life  of  his 
youth.  Untranslatable  as  the  piece  is,"  I  shall  conclude 
with  some  extracts  from  it : 

"THE   CENTAIIR. 

"  I  had  my  birth  in  the  caves  of  these  mountains.  Like 
the  stream  of  this  vaUey,  whose  firet  drops  trickle  from 
s"ome  weeping  rock  in  a  deep  cavern,  the  first  moment  of 
my  life  fell  in  the  darkness  of  a  remote  abode,  and  with- 
out breaking  the  silence.  Wlien  our  mothers  draw  near 
to  the  time  of  their  delivery,  they  withdraw  to  the  caverns, 
and  in  the  depth  of  the  loneliest  of  them,  in  the  thickest 
of  its  gloom,  bring  forth,  without  uttering  a  plaint,  a  fruit 
silent  as  themselves.  Their  puissant  milk  makes  us  sur- 
mount, without  weakness  or  dubious  struggle,  the  first 
difficulties  of  life  ;  and  yet  we  leave  our  caverns  later  than 


302  LIFE    POETRAITS. 

you  your  cradles.  Tlie  reason  is  that  we  have  a  doctrine 
that  the  early  days  of  existence  should  be  kept  apart  and 
enshrouded,  as  days  filled  with  the  presence  of  the  gods. 
Kearly  the  whole  term  of  my  growth  was  passed  in  the 
darkness  where  I  was  bom.     The  recesses  of  my  dwelling 

.  ran  so  far  under  the  mountain,  that  I  should  not  have" 
known  on  which  side  was  the  exit,  had  not  the  winds, 
when  they  sometimes  made  their  way  through  the  opening, 
sent  fresh  airs  in,  and  a  sudden  trouble.  Sometimes,  too, 
my  mother  came  back  to  me,  having  about  her  the  odors 
of  the  valleys,  or  streaming  from  the  waters  which  M^ere 
her  haunt.  Her  returning  thus,  without  a  word  said  of 
the  valleys  or  the  rivers,  but  with  the  emanations  from 
them  hanging  about  her,  troubled  my  spirit,  and  I  moved 
up  and  down  restlessly  in  my  darkness.  '  "What  is  it,'  I 
cried,  '  this  outside  world  whither  my  mother  is  borne,  and 
what  reigns  there  in  it  so  potent  as  to  attract  her  so  often  ? ' 
At  these  moments  my  own  force  began  to  make  me  unquiet. 
I  felt  in  it  a  power  which  could  not  remain  idle ;  and  be- 
taking myself  either  to  toss  my  arms  or  to  gallop  back- 
wards and  forwards  in  the  spacious  darkness  of  the  cavern, 
I  tried  to  make  out,  from  the  blows  which  I  dealt  in  the 
empty  space,  or  from  the  transport  of  my  course  througli 
it,  in  what  direction  my  anus  were  meant  to  reach,  or  my 
feet  to  bear  me.  Since  that  day,  I  liave  wound  my  arms 
round  the  bust  of  Centaurs,  and  round  the  body  of  heroes, 
and  round  the  trunk  of  oaks ;  my  hands  have  assayed  the 
rocks,. the  waters,  plants  without  number,  and  the  subtlest 
impressions  of  the  air — for  I  uplift  them  in  the  dark  and 
still  nights  to  catch  the  breaths  of  wind,  and  to  draw  signs 
whereby  I  may  augur  my  road ;  my  feet — ^look,  O  Melam- 
pus,  how  worn  they  are !  And  yet,  all  benumbed  as  I  am 
in  this  extremity  of  age,  there  are  days  when,  in  broad 

'    sunlight,  on  the  mountain-tops,  I  renew  these  gallopings 


JIAUIJICE    DE    GUElilN.  303 

of  my  youtli  in  the  cavern,  and  with  the  same  object,  brand- 
ishing my  arms  and  employing  all  the  fleetness  which  yet 
is  left  to  me. 


"  O  Melampus,  thou  who  wouldst  know  the  life  of  tho 
Centaurs,  wherefore  have  the  gods  willed  that  thy  steps 
should  lead  thee  to  me,  the  oldest  and  most  forlorn  of  them 
all  ?  It  is  long  since  I  have  ceased  to  practise  any  part  of 
their  life.  I  quit  no  more  this  mountain  summit,  to  which 
age  has  confined  me.  The  point  of  my  arrows  now  serves 
me  only  to  uproot  some  tough-fibred  plant ;  the  tranquil 
lakes  know  me  still,  but  the  rivers  have  forgotten  me.  I 
will  tell  thee  a  little  of  my  youtli ;  but  these  recollections, 
issuing  from  a  worn  memory,  come  like  the  drops  of  a 
niggardly  libation  poured  from  a  damaged  urn. 

"  The  course  of  my  youth  was  rapid  and  full  of  agita- 
tion. Movement  was  my  life,  and  my  steps  knew  no 
bound.  One  day  w^lien  I  was  following  the  course  of  a 
valley  seldom  entered  by  the  Centam-s,  I  discovered  a  man 
making  his  way  up  the  stream-side  on  the  opposite  bank. 
He  was  the  first  whom  my  eyes  had  lighted  on.  I  despised 
him.  '  Behold,'  I  cried,  '  at  the  utmost  but  the  half  of 
what  I  am  !  How  short  are  his  steps !  and  his  movement 
how  full  of  labor  !  Doubtless  he  is  a  Centaur  overthrown 
by  the  gods,  and  reduced  by  them  to  di*ag  himself  along 
thus.' 


""Wandering  along  at  my  ovm  will  like  the  rivers,  feel- 
ing wherever  I  went  the  presence  of  Cybele,  whether  in 
the  bed  of  the  valleys,  or  on  the  height  of  the  moimtains, 
I  bounded  whither  I  would,  like  a  blind  and  chainless  life. 
But  when  ISiglit,  filled  with  the  chai*m  of  the  gods,  over- 


304  LIFE    POliTRAITS. 

took  me  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountain,  she  guided  me  to 
the  montli  of  the  cavenis,  and  there  tranquillized  me  as  she 
tranquillizes  the  billows  of  the  sea.  Stretched  across  the 
threshold  of  my  retreat,  mj  flanks  hidden  within  the  cave, 
and  my  head  under  the  open  sky,  I  watched  the  spectacle 
of  the  dark.  The  sea-gods,  it  is  said,  quit  during  the  hours 
of  darkness  their  palaces  under  the  deep ;  they  seat  them- 
selves on  the  promontories,  and  their  eyes  wander  over  the 
expanse  of  the  waves.  Even  so  I  kept  watch,  having  at 
my  feet  an  expanse  of  life  like  the  hushed  sea.  My  re- 
gards had  free  range,  and  travelled  to  the  most  distant 
points.  Like  sea-beaches  which  never  lose  their  wetness, 
the  line  of  mountains  to  the  west  re  tamed  the  imprint  of 
gleams  not  perfectly  wiped  out  by  the  shadows.  In  that 
quarter  still  survived,  in  pale  clearness,  momitain-smnmits 
naked  and  pure.  There  I  beheld  at  one  time  the  god  Pan 
descend,  ever  solitary ;  at  another,  the  choir  of  the  mystic 
divinities;  or  I  saw  pass  some  mountain-nymph  charm- 
struck  by  the  night.  Sometimes  the  eagles  of  Mount 
Olympus  traversed  the  upper  sky,  and  were  lost  to  view 
among  the  far-off  constellations,  or  in  the  shade  of  the 
dreaming  forests. 

"  Thou  pursuest  after  w^isdom,  O  Melampus,  which  is 
the  science  of  the  will  of  the  gods ;  and  thou  roamest  from 
people  to  people  like  a  mortal  driven  by  the  destinies.  In 
the  times  when  I  kept  my  night-watches  before  the  cav- 
erns, I  have  sometimes  believed  that  I  was  about  to  sur- 
prise the  thought  of  the  sleeping  Cybele,  and  that  the 
mother  of  the  gods,  betrayed  by  her  dreams,  would  let  fall 
some  of  her  secrets ;  but  I  have  never  made  out  more  than 
sounds  which  faded  away  in  the  nmrmur  of  night,  or 
words  inarticulate  as  the  bubbling  of  the  rivers. 

"  '  O  Macareus,'  one  day  said  the  great  Chiron  to  me, 
whose  old  age  I  tended ;  '  we  are,  both  of  us,  Centam-s  of 


MAURICE   DE    GUERIIT.  305 

the  mountain ;  but  how  different  are  our  lives !  Of  my 
davs  all  the  study  is  (thou  seest  it)  the  search  for  plants ; 
thou,  thou  art  like  those  mortals  who  have  picked  up  on 
the  waters  or  in  the  woods,  and  carried  to  their  lips,  some 
pieces  of  the  reed-pipe  throM-n  away  by  the  god  Pan.  From 
that  hour  these  moitals,  having  caught  from  their  relics  of 
the  god  a  passion  for  wild  life,  or  perhaps  smitten  with 
some  secret  madness,  enter  into  the  wilderness,  plunge 
among  the  forests,  follow  the  course  of  the  streams,  bury 
themselves  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains,  restless,  and 
haunted  by  an  unknown  pui-pose.  The  mares,  beloved  of 
the  winds  in  the  farthest  Scythia,  are  not  wilder  than  thou, 
nor  more  cast  down  at  nightfall,  when  the  Xorth  Wind 
has  departed.  Scekest  thou  to  know  the  gods,  O  Maca- 
reus,  and  from  what  source  men,  animals,  and  the  elements 
of  the  universal  fire  have  their  origin?  But  the  aged 
Ocean,  the  father  of  all  things,  keeps  locked  within  his 
own  breast  these  secrets ;  and  the  nymphs  who  stand 
around  sing  as  they  weave  their  eternal  dance  before  him, 
to  cover  any  sound  which  might  escape  from  his  lips  half- 
opened  by  slumber.  The  mortals,  dear  to  the  gods  for 
their  virtue,  have  received  from  their  hands  lyres  to  give 
delight  to  man,  or  the  seeds  of  new  plants  to  make  him 
rich  ;  but  from  their  inexorable  lips,  nothing ! ' 


"  Such  were  the  lessons  which  the  old  Chiron  gave  me. 
"Waned  to  the  very  extremity  of  life,  the  Centaur  yet 
nourished  in  his  spirit  the  most  lofty  discourse. 


"  For  me,  O  Melampus,  I  decline  unto  my  last  days, 
calm  as  the  setting  of  the  constellations.  I  still  retain  en- 
terprise enough  to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  rocks,  and  there 


aoG 


LIFE   PORTRAITS. 


I  linger  late,  either  gazing  on  the  wild  and  restless  clouds, 
or  to  see  come  up  from  the  horizon  the  rainj  II jades,  the 
Pleiades,  or  the  great  Orioil ;  but  I  feel  myself  perishing 
and  passing  quickly  away,  like  a  snow-wreath  floating  on 
the  stream ;  and  soon  I  shall  be  mingled  with  the  waters 
which  flow  in  the  vast  bosom  of  Earth." 


DENIS  DIDEROT. 

(1Y13-1784.) 

One  of  the  most  activ^e  and  original  of  the  famona  group  of 
men  of  letters  in  France  in  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. He  was  born  at  Langres  in  1713.  He  was  educated  by 
the  Jesuits,  like  most  of  those  who  afterwards  became  the 
bitterest  enemies  of  Catholicism ;  and,  when  his  education 
was  at  an  end,  he  vexed  his  brave  and  worthy  father's 
heart  by  turning  away  from  respectable  callings,  like  law 
or  medicine,  and  throwing  himself  into  the  vagabond  life 
of  a  bookseller's  hack  in  Paris.  An  imprudent  marriage 
(1743)  did  not  better  his  position.  His  wife  was  a  devout 
Catholic,  but  her  piety  did  not  restrain  a  narrow  and  fret- 
ful temper,  and  Diderot's  domestic  life  was  irregular  and 
unhappy.  He  'sought  consolation  for  chagrins  at  home,  in 
attachments  abroad,  first  with  a  Madame  Puisieux,  a  fifth- 
rate  female  scribbler,  and  then  with  Mdlle.  Voland,  to 
whom  he  was  constant  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  His  letters 
to  her  are  among  the  most  graphic  of  all  the  pictures  that 
we  have  of  the  daily  life  of  the  philosophic  circle  in  Paris. 
An  interesting  contrast  may  be  made  between  the  Bohe- 
mianism  of  the  famous  literary  set  who  supped  at  the 
Turk's  Head  with  the  Tory  Johnson  and  the  Conservative 
Burke  for  their  oracles,  and  the  Bohemianism  of  the  set 
who  about  the  same  time  dined  once  a  week  at  the  Baron 


308  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

D'Holbacli's,  to  listen  to  the  wild  sallies  and  the  inspiring 
declamations  of  Diderot.  For  Diderot  was  not  a  great 
Avriter ;  he  stands  out  as  a  fertile,  suggestive,  and  daring 
thinker,  and  a  prodigious  and  most  eloquent  talker. 

Diderot's  earliest  writings  were  of  as  little  importance  as 
Goldsmith's  "  Enquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning," 
or  Burke's  "  Abridgement  of  English  History."  He  earned 
one  hundred  crowns  by  translating  Stanyan's  "  History  of 
Greece  ; "  with  two  colleagues  he  produced  a  translation  of 
James's  "  Dictionary  of  Medicine ; "  and  about  the  same  date 
(1Y45)  he  published  a  free  rendering  of  Shaftesbury's  "  In- 
quiry Concerning  Virtue  and  Merit, "  with  some  original 
notes  of  his  own.  With  strange  and  characteristic  versa- 
tility, he  turned  from  ethical  speculation  to  the  composi- 
tion of  a  volume  of  stories,  which  are  gross  without  liveli- 
ness, and  impure  without  wit.  In  later  years  he  repented 
of  this  shameless  work,  just  as  Boccaccio  is  said,  in  the  day 
of  his  gray  hairs  to  have  tliought  of  the  sprightliness  of 
the  "  Decameron "  with  strong  remorse.  From  tales  Diderot 
went  back  to  the  more  congenial  region  of  philosophy. 
Between  the  morning  of  Good  Friday  and  the  evening  of 
Easter  Monday  he  wrote  the  "  Philosophic  Thoughts " 
(1746),  and  he  presently  added  to  this  a  short  complementary 
essay,  "  On  the  Sufficiency  of  Natural  Religion."  The  gist 
of  these  performances  is  to  press  the  ordinary  rationalistic 
objections  to  a  supernatural  revelation  ;  but  though  Diderot 
did  not  at  this  time  pass  out  into  the  wilderness  beyond 
natural  religion,  yet  there  are  signs  that  he  accepted  that 
less  as  a  positive  doctrine,  resting  on  grounds  of  its  own,  than 
as  a  convenient  point  of  attack  against  Christianity.  In 
1747  he  -wrote  the  "  Sceptic's  Walk,"  a  rather  poor  allegory 
— pointing  first  to  the  extravagances  of  Catholicism  ;  sec- 
ond, to  the  vanity  of  the  pleasures  of  that  world  which  is 
the  rival  of  the  church ;  and  third,  to  the  desperate  and 


DENIS    DIDEROT.  309 

unfathomable  uncertainty  of  the  philosophy  which  pro- 
fesses to  be  so  high  above  both  church  and  world. 

Diderot's  next  piece  was  what  first  introduced  him  to 
the  world  as  an  original  thinker,  his  famous  "  Letter  on 
the  Blind  "  (1749).  The  immediate  object  of  this  short  but 
pithy  writing  was  to  show  the  dependence  of  men's  ideas 
on  their  five  senses.  It  considers  the  case  of  the  intel- 
lect deprived  of  the  aid  of  one  of  the  senses ;  and  in  a 
second  piece,  published  afterwards,  Diderot  considered 
the  case  of  a  similar  deprivation  in  the  deaf  and  dumb. 
The  "  Letter  on  Deaf -Mutes,"  however,  is  substantially  a 
digressive  examination  of  some  points  in  aesthetics.  The 
philosophic  significance  of  the  two  essays  is  in  the  advance 
they  make  towards  the  principle  of  relativity.  But  what  in- 
terested the  militant  philosophers  of  that  day  was  an  epi- 
sodic application  of  the  principle  of  relativity  to  the 
master-conception  of  God.  What  makes  the  "  Letter  on 
the  Blind  "  interesting  at  the  present  moment  is  its  presen- 
tation, in  a  distinct  though  undigested  form,  of  the  modern 
theory  of  variability,  and  of  sm-vival  by  superior  adapta- 
tion. It  is  worth  noticing,  too,  as  an  illustration  of  the 
comprehensive  freedom  with  which  Diderot  felt  his  way 
round  any  subject  that  he  approached,  that  in  this  theo- 
retic essay  he  suggests  the  possibility  of  teaching  the  blind 
to  read  through  the  sense  of  touch.  If  the  "  Letter  on  the 
Blind  "  introduced  Diderot  into  the  worshipful  company  of 
the  philosophers,  it  also  introduced  him  to  the  penalties  of 
philosophy.  Ilis  speculation  was  too  hardy  for  the  authcJii- 
ties,  and  he  was  thrown  into  tlie  prison  of  Vincennes. 
Here  he  remained  for  three  months ;  then  he  was  released, 
to  enter  upon  the  gigantic  undertaking  of  his  life. 

A  certain  bookseller  had  applied  to  him  wath  a  project 
for  the  translation  into  French  of  Ephraim  Chambers's 
"  Cj'clopaedia."    Diderot  accepted  the  proposal,  but  in  his 


310  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

busy  and  pregnant  intelligence  the  scheme  became  trans- 
formed. Instead  of  a  mere  reproduction  of  Chambers,  he 
persuaded  the  bookseller  to  enter  upon  a  new  work,  which 
should  collect  under  one  roof  all  the  at;tive  writers,  all  the 
new  ideas,  all  the  new  knowledge,  that  were  then  moving 
the  cultivated  class  to  its  depths,  but  still  were  comparatively 
ineffectual  by  reason  of  their  dispersion.  His  enthusiasm 
infected  the  publishers ;  they  collected  a  sufficient  capital 
for  a  vaster  enterprise  than  they  had  at  first  planned ; 
D'Alembert  was  persuaded  to  became  Diderot's  colleague ; 
the  requisite  permission  was  procured  from  the  Govern- 
ment ;  in  1750  an  elaborate  prospectus  announced  the  pro- 
ject to  a  delighted  public ;  and  in  ITol  the  first  volume 
"was  given  to  the  world.  The  last  of  the  letterpress  was 
issued  in  1T65,  but  it  was  1772  before  the  subscribers  re- 
ceived the  final  volumes  of  the  plates.  These  twenty  years 
■were  to  Diderot  years  not  merely  of  incessant  drudgery, 
but  of  harassing  persecution,  of  sufferings  from  the  cabals  of 
enemies,  and  of  injury  from  the  desertion  of  friends.  The 
ecclesiastical  party  detested  the  "  Encyclopaedia,"  in  which 
they  saw  a  rising  stronghold  for  their  philosophic  enemies. 
By  1757  they  could  endiu-e  the  sight  no  longer.  The  sub- 
scribers had  growTi  from  two  thousand  to  four  thousand,  and 
this  was  a  right  measure  of  the  growth  of  the  work  in  popu- 
lar influence  and  power.  To  any  one  who  turns  over  the 
pages  of  these  redoubtable  volumes  now,  it  seems  surpris- 
ing that  their  doctrines  should  have  stirred  such  portentous 
a!arm.  There  is  no  atheism,  no  overt  attack  on  any  of  the 
cardinal  mysteries  of  the  faith,  no  direct  demmciation  even 
of  the  notorious  abuses  of  the  church.  Yet  we  feel  that 
the  atmosphere  of  the  book  may  well  have  been  displeasing 
to  authorities  who  had  not  yet  learned  to  encounter  the 
modern  spirit  on  equal  terms.  The  "  Encyclopaedia  "  takes 
for  gi-anted  the  justice  of  religious  tolerance  and  specu 


DENIS   DIDEROT.  311 

lative  freedom.  It  asserts  in  distinct  tones  the  democratic 
doctrine  that  it  is  the  common  people  in  a  nation  whose  lot 
ought  to  be  the  main  concern  of  the  nation's  government. 
From  beginning  to  end  it  is  one  unbroken  process  of 
exaltation  of  scientific  loiowledge  on  the  one  hand,  and 
pacific  industry  on  the  other.  All  these  things  were  odious 
to  the  old  governing  classes  of  France;  their  spirit  was 
absolutist,  ecclesiastical,  and  military.  Perhaps  the  most 
alarming  thought  of  all  was  the  current  belief  that  the 
"  Encyclopaedia "  was  the  work  of  an  organized  band  of 
conspirators  against  society,  and  that  a  pestilent  doctrine 
was  now  made  truly  formidable  by  the  confederation  of  its 
preachers  into  an  open  league.  When  the  seventh  volume 
appeared,  it  contained  an  article  on  "  Geneva,"  written  by 
D'Alembert.  The  writer  contrived  a  panegyric  on  the 
pastors  of  Geneva,  of  which  every  word  was  a  stinging  re- 
proach to  the  abbes  and  prelates  of  Versailles.  At  the  same 
moment  Helvetius's  book,  "  L'Esprit,"  appeared,  and  gave 
a  still  more  profound  and,  let  us  add,  a  more  reasonable 
shock  to  the  ecclesiastical  party.  Authority  could  brook  no 
more,  and  in  1759  the  "Encyclopaedia"  was  formally  sup- 
pressed. 

The  decree,  however,  did  not  ari-est  the  continuance  of 
the  work.  The  connivance  of  the  authorities  at  the  breach 
of  their  own  official  orders  was  common  in  those  times  of 
distracted  government.  The  work  went  on,  but  its  diffi- 
culties increased  by  the  necessity  of  being  clandestine. 
And  a  worse  thing  than  troublesome  interference  by  the 
police  now  befell  Diderot.  D'Alembert,  wearied  of  shifts 
and  indignities,  withdrew  from  the  enterprise.  Other 
powerful  colleagues,  Turgot  among  them,  declined  to  con- 
tribute further  to  a  book  which  had  acquired  an  evil  fame. 
Diderot  was  left  to  bring  the  task  to  an  end  as  he  best 
could.     For  seven  years  he  labored  like  a  slave  at  the  oar. 


312  LIFE   POETRAITS. 

He  wrote  several  hundred  articles,  some  of  them  very 
slight,  but  many  of  them  most  laborious,  comprehensive, 
and  ample.  He  wore  out  his  eyesight  in  correcting  proofs, 
and  he  wearied  his  soul  in  bringing  the  manuscript  of  less 
competent  contributors  into  decent  shape.  He  spent  his 
days  in  the  workshops,  mastering  the  processes  of  manu- 
factures, and  his  nights  in  reproducing  on  paper  what  lie 
had  learned  during  the  day.  And  he  was  incessantly  har- 
assed all  the  time  by  alarms  of  a  descent  from  the  police. 
At  the  last  moment,  M'lien  his  immense  work  was  just 
drawing  to  an  end,  he  encountered  one  last  and  crowning 
mortification :  he  discovered  that  the  bookseller,  fearing 
the  displeasure  of  the  Government,  had  struck  out  fi'om 
the  proof-sheets,  after  they  had  left  Diderot's  hands,  all 
passages  that  he  chose  to  think  too  hardy.  The  monument 
to  which  Diderot  had  given  the  labor  of  twenty  long  and 
oppressive  years  was  irreparably  mutilated  and  defaced. 
It  is  calculated  that  the  average  aimual  salary  received  by 
Diderot  for  his  share  in  the  "  Encyclopaedia "  was  about 
£120  sterling.  "  And  then  to  think,"  said  Voltaire,  "  that 
an  army  contractor  makes  £800  in  a  day." 

Although  the  "Encyclopaedia"  was  Diderot's  monumen- 
tal work,  he  is  the  author  of  a  shower  of  dispersed  pieces 
that  sowed  nearly  every  field  of  intellectual  interest  with 
new  and  fruitful  ideas.  We  find  no  masterpiece,  but 
only  thoughts  for  masteipieces ;  no  creation,  but  a  criticism 
with  the  quality  to  inspire  and  direct  creation.  He  wrote 
plays — "  Le  Fils  ]S"aturel "  and  "  Le  Pere  de  Famille  " — 
and  they  are  very  insipid  performances  in  the  sentimental 
A'ein.  But  he  accompanied  them  by  essays  on  dramatic 
poetry,  including  especially  the  "  Paradoxe  sur  le  Coine- 
dien,"  in  which  he  announced  the  principles  of  a  new 
drama — the  serious,  domestic,  bourgeois  drama  of  real  life 
— in  opposition  to  the  stilted  conventions  of  the  classic 


DENIS   DIDEROT.  313 

Frencli  stage.  It  was  Diderot's  lessons  and  example  that 
gave  a  decisive  bias  to  the  dramatic  taste  of  Lessing,  whose 
plays,  and  his  "  Hamburgische  Di-amatm-gie  "  (1768),  mark 
so  important  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  modern  theatre. 
In  the  pictorial  art,  Diderot's  criticisms  are  no  less  rich, 
fertile,  and  wide  in  their  ideas.  His  article  on  "  Beauty," 
in  the  "  Encyclopaedia,"  shows  that  he  had  mastered  and 
passed  bej'ond  the  metaphysical  theories  on  the  subject, 
and  the  "Essay  on  Painting"  was  justly  described  by 
Goethe,  who  thought  it  worth  translating,  as  "  a  magnifi- 
cent work,  which  speaks  even  more  helpfully  to  the  poet 
than  to  the  painter,  though  to  the  painter  too  it  is  as 
a  blazing  torch."  Diderot's  most  intimate  friend  was 
Grimm,  one  of  the  conspicuous  figures  of  the  philosophic 
body.  Grimm  wi'ote  news-letters  to  various  high  person- 
ages in  Germany,  reporting  what  was  going  on  in  the 
world  of  art  and  literature  in  Paris,  then  without  a  rival 
as  the  capital  of  the  intellectual  activity  of  Europe.  Diderot 
lielped  his  friend  at  one  time  and  another  between  1759 
and  1779,  by  writing  for  him  an  account  of  the  annual  ex- 
hibitions of  paintings.  These  /Salons  are  among  the  most 
readable  of  all  pieces  of  art  criticism.  Tliey  have  a  fresh- 
ness, a  reality,  a  life,  mIucIi  took  their  readers  into  a  differ- 
ent world  from  the  dry  and  conceited  pedantries  of  the  or- 
dinary \'irtuoso.  As  has  been  said  by  Sainte-Beuve,  they 
mitiated  the  French  into  a  new  sentiment,  and  introduced 
people  to  the  mystery  and  purport  of  color  by  ideas. 
"  Before  Diderot,"  Madame  Necker  said,  "  I  had  never 
seen  anything  in  pictures  except  dull  and  lifeless  colors ;  it 
was  his  imagination  that  gave  them  relief  and  life,  and  it 
is  almost  a  new  sense  for  which  I  am  indebted  to  his 
genius."  Greuze  was  Diderot's  favorite  among  contempo- 
i-ary  artists,  and  it  is  easy  to  see  why.  Greuze's  most  charac- 
teristic pictures  were  the  rendering  in  color  of  the  same 
14 


314  LIFE   POKTEAITS. 

sentiment  of  domestic  virtue  and  the  pathos  of  common 
life,  which  Diderot  attempted  with  inferior  success  to  repre- 
sent upon  the  stage.  For  Diderot  was  above  all  things 
interested  in  tlie  life  of  men — not  the  abstract  life  of  tlie 
race,  but  the  incidents  of  individual  character,  the  for- 
tunes of  a  particular  family,  the  relations  of  real  and  con- 
crete motives  in  this  or  that  special  case. 

lie  delighted  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  bom  casuist  in 
curious  puzzles  of  right  and  wrong,  and  in  devising  a  con- 
flict between  the  generalities  of  ethics  and  the  conditions 
of  an  ingeniously  contrived  practical  dilemma.  Mostly 
his  interest  expressed  itself  in  didactic  and  spnpathetic 
form.  In  two,  however,  of  the  most  remarkable  of  all  his 
pieces,  it  is  not  sympathetic  but  ironical.  "Jacques  le 
Fataliste"  (wi-itten  in  1773,  but  not  published  until  1796) 
is  in  manner  an  imitation  of  "  Tristram  Shandy  "  and  "  The 
Sentimental  Journey."  Few  modern  readers  will  find  in  it 
any  true  diversion.  In  spite  of  some  excellent  criticisms 
dispersed  here  and  there,  and  in  spite  of  one  or  two  stories 
that  are  not  without  a  certain  effective  realism,  it  must  as 
a  whole  be  pronounced  savorless,  forced,  and  as  leaving 
unmoved  those  springs  of  laughter  and  of  tears  which  are 
the  common  fountain  of  humor.  "  Kameau's  Xephew  "  is 
a  far  superior  performance.  If  there  were  any  inevitable 
compulsion  to  name  a  mastei-piece  for  Diderot,  one  must 
select  this  singular  "farce-tragedy."  Its  intention  has 
been  matter  of  dispute ;  whether  it  was  designed  to  be 
merely  a  satire  on  contemporary  manners,  or  a  reduction  of 
the  theory  of  self-interest  to  an  absurdity,  or  the  applica- 
tion of  an  ironical  clencher  to  the  ethics  of  ordinary  con- 
vention, or  a  mere  setting  for  a  discussion  about  music,  or 
a  vigorous  di-amatic  sketch  of  a  parasite  and  a  human 
original.  There  is  no  dispute  as  to  its  curious  literary  flavor, 
its  mixed  qualities  of  pungency,  bitterness,  pity,  and,,  in 


DENIS   DIDEROT.  315 

places,  ■unflinching  shamelessness.  Goethe's  translation 
(1805)  was  the  first  introduction  of  "Rameau's  Kephew" 
to  the  European  public.  After  executing  it,  he  gave  back 
the  original  French  manuscript  to  Schiller,  from  whom  he 
had  it.  l\o  authentic  French  copy  of  it  appeared  until  the 
writer  had  been  nearly  forty  years  in  his  grave  (1823). 

It  would  take  several  pages  merely  to  contain  the  list  of 
Diderot's  miscellaneous  pieces,  from  an  infinitely  graceful 
trifle  like  the  "  Regrets  on  My  Old  Dressing  Gown,"  up  to 
"  D'Alembert's  Dream,"  where  he  plunges  into  the  depths 
of  the  controversy  as  to  the  ultimate  constitution  of  matter 
and  the  meaning  of  life.  It  is  a  mistake  to  set  down 
Diderot  for  a  coherent  and  systematic  materialist.  We 
ought  to  look  upon  him  "  as  a  philosopher  in  whom  all 
the  contradictions  of  the  time  stniggle  with  one  another  " 
(Rosenkranz).  That  is  to  say,  he  is  critical  and  not 
dogmatic.  There  is  no  unity  in  Diderot,  as  there  was 
in  Yoltaire  or  in  Rousseau.  Just  as  in  cases  of  conduct, 
he  loves  to  make  new  ethical  assumptions  and  argue  them 
out  as  a  professional  sophist  might  have  done ;  so,  in  the 
speculative  problems  as  to  the  organization  of  matter,  the 
origin  of  life,  the  compatibility  between  physiological  ma- 
chinery and  free-will,  he  takes  a  certain  standpoint,  and 
follows  it  out  more  or  less  digressively  to  its  consequences. 
He  seizes  an  hypothesis  and  works  it  to  its  end,  and  this 
made  him  the  inspirer  in  others  of  materialist  doctrines 
which  they  held  more  definitely  than  he  did.  Just  as 
Diderot  could  not  attain  to  the  concentration,  the  positive- 
ness,  the  finality  of  aim  needed  for  a  mastei-piece  of  litera- 
ture, so  he  could  not  attain  to  those  qualities  in  the  way  of 
dogma  and  system.  Yet  he  drew  at  last  to  the  conclusions 
of  materialism,  and  contributed  many  of  its  most  declama- 
tory pages  to  the  "  Systeme  de  la  Mature "  of  his  friend 
D'Holbach — the,  very  Bible  of  atheism,  as  some  one  styled 


316  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

it.  All  that  lie  saw,  if  we  reduce  liis  opinions  to  formulas, 
was  motion  in  space :  "  attraction  and  repulsion,  the  only 
truth."  If  matter  produces  life  bj  spontaneous  genera- 
tion, and  if  man  has  no  alternative  but  to  obey  the  com- 
pulsion of  nature,  what  remains  for  God  to  do  ? 

In  proportion  as  these  conclusions  deepened  in  him, 
the  more  did  Diderot  turn  for  the  hope  of  the  race  to 
virtue ;  in  other  words,  to  such  a  regulation  of  conduct 
and  motive  as  shall  make  us  tender,  pitiful,  simple,  con- 
tented. Hence  his  one  great  literary  passion,  his  enthusiasm 
for  Richardson,  our  English  novelist.  Hence,  also,  his  deep- 
ening aversion  for  the  political  system  of  France,  which 
made  the  realization  of  a  natural  and  contented  domestic 
life  so  hard.  Diderot  had  almost  as  much  to  say  against 
society  as  even  Rousseau  himself.  The  difference  between 
them  was  that  Rousseau  was  a  fervent  tlieist.  The  atheism 
of  the  Ilolbachians,  as  he  called  Diderot's  group,  was  in- 
tolerable to  him ;  and  this  feeling,  aided  by  certain  private 
perversities  of  humor,  led  to  a  breach  of  what  had  once 
been  an  intimate  friendship  between  Rousseau  and  Diderot 
(1757).  Diderot  was  still  alive  when  the  "  Confessions  " 
appeared,  and  he  was  so  exasperated  by  Rousseau's  stories 
about  Grimm,  then  and  alwa^'s  Diderot's  intimate,  that 
in  17S3  he  transformed  a  life  of  Seneca,  that  he  had 
written  four  years  earlier,  into  an  "  Essay  on  the  Reigns 
of  Claudius  and  Kero,"  which  is  much  less  an  account  of 
Seneca  than  a  vindication  of  Diderot  and  Grimm,  and  is 
one  of  the  most  rambling  and  inept  productions  in  lit- 
era-ture.  As  for  the  merits  of  the  old  quarrel  between 
Rousseau  and  Diderot,  we  may  agree  with  tlie  latter,  that 
too  many  sensible  people  would  be  in  the  wrong  if  Jean 
Jacques  was  iu  the  right. 

Varied  and  incessant  as  was  Diderot's  mental  activity,  it 
was  not  of  a  kind  to  bring  him  riches,     lie  secured  none 


DENTS    DIDEROT.  317 

of  the  posts  that  were  occasionally  given  to  needy  men  of 
letters ;  he  could  not  even  obtain  that  bare  official  recog- 
nition of  merit  which  was  implied  by  being  chosen  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Academy. 

The  time  came  for  him  to  provide  a  dower  for  his 
daughter,  and  he  saw  no  other  alternative  than  to  sell  his 
library.  When  the  Empress  Catharine  of  Russia  heard  of 
his  straits,  she  commissioned  an  agent  in  Paris  to  buy  the 
library  at  a  price  equal  to  about  £1,000  of  our  money,  and 
then  she  handsomely  requested  the  plTilosopher  to  retain 
the  books  in  Paris  until  she  required  them,  and  to  consti- 
tute himself  her  librarian,  with  a  yearly  salary.  In  1773 
Diderot  started  on  an  expedition  to  thank  his  imperial  bene- 
factress ju  person,  and  he  passed  some  months  at  St.  Peters- 
burg. The  empress  received  him  cordially.  The  strange 
pair  passed  their  afternoons  in  disputes  on  a  thousand  points 
of  high  philosophy,  and  they  debated  with  a  vivacity  and 
freedom  not  usual  in  courts.  "  Fi,  doiic^''  said  Catherine,  one 
day,  when  Diderot  hinted  that  he  argued  with  her  at  a  dis- 
advantage, "  is  there  any  difference  among  men  f  "  Diderot 
returned  home  in  177-1.  Ten  years  remained  to  him,  and 
he  spent  them  in  the  industrious  acquisition  of  new  knowl- 
edge, in  the  composition  of  a  host  of  fragmentary  pieces, 
some  of  them  mentioned  above,  and  in  luminous  declama- 
tions with  his  friends.  All  accounts  agree  that  Diderot 
was  seen  at  his  best  in  conversation.  "He  who  only 
knows  Diderot  in  his  writings,"  says  Mannontel,  "  does 
not  know  him  at  all.  "Wlien  he  grew  animated  in  talk,  and 
allowed  his  thoughts  to  flow  in  all  their  abundance,  then 
he  became  truly  ravishing.  In  his  writings  he  had  not  the 
art  of  ensemble  ;  the  first  operation  which  orders  and  places 
everything  was  too  slow  and  too  painful  to  him."  Diderot 
himself  was  conscious' of  the  want  of  litei'ary  merit  in  his 
pieces.     In  truth  he  set  no  high  value  on  what  he  had 


318  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

done.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  was  ever  alive  to  the 
waste  that  circumstances  and  temperament  together  made 
of  an  intelligence  from  which,  if  it  had  been  free  to  work 
systematically,  the  world  of  thought  had  so  much  to  hope. 
He  was  one  of  those  simple,  disinterested,  and  intellectually 
sterling  workers  to  whom  their  own  personality  is  as  noth- 
ing in  presence  of  the  vast  subjects  that  engage  the 
thoughts  of  their  lives.  He  wi'ote  what  he  found  to  "write, 
and  left  the  piece,  as  Carlyle  has  said,  "  on  the  waste  of 
accident,  with  an  ostrich-like  indifference."  When  he 
heard  one  day  that  a  collected  edition  of  his  works  was  in 
the  press  at  Amsterdam,  he  greeted  the  news  with  "  peals 
of  laughter,"  so  well  did  he  know  the  haste  and  the  little 
heed  with  which  those  works  had  been  dashed  off. . 

Diderot  died  in  the  month  of  July,  1784,  six  years  after 
Yoltaire  and  Rousseau,  one  year  after  his  old  colleague, 
D'Alembert,  and  five  years  before  D'Holbach,  his  host 
and  intimate  for  a  lifetime.  Notwithstanding  Diderot's 
peals  of  laughter  at  the  thought,  there  is  now  just  com- 
pleted— nearly  a  hundred  years  since  his  death — an  elabo- 
rate and  exhaustive  collection  of  his  writings,  in  twenty 
stout  vlomnes,  edited  by  MM.  Assezat  and  Tom-neaux. 


JEAN  DE  LA  FONTAINE. 

(1621.) 

Jean  de  La  Fontaine,  the  celebrated  French  fabulist, 
and  one  of  the  greatest  of  French  poets,  was  born  in  1621 
at  Chateau-Thierry,  in  Champagne.  His  father  was  Maitre 
des  Eaux  et  des  Forets  in  that  town,  and  had  little  time 
to  bestow  on  the  education  of  his  son,  who  did  not  exhibit 
a  spark  of  intelligence  till  he  had  reached  his  twenty- 
second  year.  At  Rheims,  where  he  got  all  the  education 
he  ever  received,  he  devoted  himself  more  to  pleasure  than 
to  study,  and,  in  after  days,  described  in  flowing  melodious 
verse  the  gallantries  of  which  he  had  then  been  guilty.  In 
1641  he  entered  the  monastery  of  the  Oratoire,  but  finding 
the  monkish  way  of  life  exfremcly  distasteful,  he  left  it 
and  returned  home.  Soon  after  this  he  married,  and  suc- 
ceeded his  father  in  his  oflfice,  performed  his  duties  ex- 
tremely ill,  and  finally  abandoned  his  wife  (with  whom  he 
had  lived  on  very  indifPerent  terms)  to  go  to  Paris  in  the 
train  of  the  Duchesse  de  Bouillon,  niece  of  Cardinal  Maza- 
rin.  Before  this  time,  however,  his  mind  had  begun  to 
awaken  to  a  consciousness  of  its  strength.  An  ode  of 
Malherbe,  which  was  once  read  in  his  hearing,  is  said  to 
have  elicited  from  him  the  expression,  "  I,  too,  am  a  poet," 
and  to  have  first  stinudated  him  to  literary  enterprise.  He 
began  a  systematic  study  of  the  writers  of  his  own  country 


320  LIFE   PORTRAITS. 

and  of  the  ancient  classics,  and  the  first  fruits  of  his  labors 
was  a  translation  of  the  "  Eunuchus  "  of  Terence.  This 
work  had  very  poor  success,  and  was  in  many  respects  so 
unsatisfactory  as  not  to  deserve  much.  In  the  French 
metropolis  La  Fontaine  was  kindly  received,  and  spent 
much  of  his  time  and  far  more  money  than  he  could  afford 
in  the  pursuit  of  those  pleasures  for  which  that  city  affords 
unrivalled  facilities ;  but  none  of  the  reverses  of  fortune 
by  which  he  was  overtaken  ever  altered  his  disposition  in 
the  least. 

His  indifference  to  his  worldly  affairs  compelled  him 
to  sell,  year  by  year,  a  portion  of  his  patrimonial  estate, 
and  it  is  not  known  to  what  straits  he  might  have  been 
reduced,  had  not  a  charitable  lady,  Mme.  de  La  Sabliere, 
received  him  into  her  house  and  taken  care  of  him  for 
twe:ity  years.  When  driveii  by  her  own  necessities  to  re- 
duce her  establishment,  this  lady  used  to  talk  to  her  friends 
of  having  retained  only  her  three  animals — her  dog,  her 
cat,  and  La  Fontaine.  In  1684  La  Fontaine  was  admitted 
into  the  French  Academy  ;  but  Louis  XIY.,  indignant  that 
he  should  have  been  preferred  to  Boileau,  refused  to  sanc- 
tion his  appointment.  Another  vacancy  occurring  soon 
after,  gave  an  opportunity  for  Boileau's  election,  and  both 
candidates  were  admitted  without  any  opposition  from  the 
king.  On  the  death  of  Mme.  de  La  Sabliere,  La  Fontaine 
was  reduced  to  great  extremities,  and  had  seriously  be- 
thought himself  of  going  to  England  on  the  invitation  of 
St.  Evi-emond.  Luckily,  the  kind  intervention  of  the 
Duke  of  Burgundy  in  his  behalf  enabled  him  to  remain  at 
home.  His  health  at  this  time  became  very  bad,  and  was 
not  much  improved  by  his  squabbles  with  the  clerg}',  who, 
believing  him  to  be  dying,  threatened  him  with  the  terrors 
of  the  Church  unless  he  made  a  public  apology  for  his  licen- 
tious talcs,  and  burned  a  comedy  which  he  was  preparing 


JEAN   DE    LA   FONTAINE.  321 

for  the  stage.  After  a  good  deal  of  hesitation,  he  com- 
plied with  both  these  demands.  In  1G93  his  health  be- 
came rapidly  worse,  and  he  spent  the  most  of  his  time  in 
translating  hymns  for  the  Church  and  in  other  literary  ex- 
ercises, chiefly  of  a  religious  character.  His  last  days  were 
cared  for  by  the  kindness  of  his  friend  D'llervart,  who  re- 
ceived hhn  into  his  house  and  tended  him  with  almost 
filial  care  till  his  death  in  1695. 

The  character  of  La  Fontaine  is  a  curious  medley  of 
strength  and  weakness.  His  acute  perception  of  what  was 
right,  and  his  inability  to  practise  it,  remind  us  of  Richard 
Steele.  His  invincible  laziness  and  good  humor  are  only 
to  be  paralleled  by  the  similar  qualities  in  the  author  of 
"  The  Seasons."  His  shrewd  yet  childlike  simplicity,  his 
vanity,  his  tenderness  of  heart,  his  awkwardness,  and  his 
absence  of  mind,  are  all  qualities  which  he  had  in  common 
with  our  own  Goldsmith ;  and,  indeed,  the  epithet  of 
"  inspired  idiot,"  unjustly  applied  to  that  author,  might 
with  much  propriety  have  been  given  to  the  Fi-ench  fabu- 
list. His  weaknesses  were  all  of  a  kind  that  made  him  at 
once  the  pet  and  the  laughing-stock  of  his  friends.  AVith 
Racine,  Moliere,  and  Eoileauhe  lived  on  terms  of  the  most 
intimate  friendship.  They  often  rallied  him,  and  sometimes 
with  good  reason,  on  his  many  failings  ;  but,  as  Moliere 
said  on  one  of  these  occasions,  "  lis  out  beau  se  tremousser, 
ils  n'effaceront  pas  le  bonhonnne."  The  sobriquet  of  "  Le 
Bonhomme"  was  so  pat  that  it  stuck  to  him  through  life, 
and  has  been  confirmed  by  posterity.  He  often  exhibited 
the  strangest  want  of  interest  in  matters  of  the  deepest 
concern,  and  a  dreamy  absorption  in  trifles,  such  as  seemed 
to  argue  some  unaccountable  intellectual  weakness.  Pos- 
sessed, as  he  undoubtedly  was,  of  rare  and  remarkable 
literary  powers,  his  range  both  of  sympathy  and  knowledge 
in  literary  affairs  was  astonishingly  limited.  On  one  occa- 
14* 


322  LIFE    PORTRAITS. 

Bion,  hearing  Racine  read  some  extracts  from  Plato,  lie 
suddenly  broke  out  into  a  rhapsody  of  admiration  for  the 
Greek  philosopher,  whom  he  praised  as  one  of  the  most 
amusing  of  writers.  At  another  time,  being  present  at  a 
theological  debate  that  was  carried  on  with  much  spirit, 
he  fell  asleep,  and,  on  awakening,  asked  the  company 
whether  they  thought  that  St.  Augustine  was  as  witty  a 
writer  as  Rabelais.  Racine  once  took  him  to  the  "  Tene- 
brse,"  and  seeing  that  he  was  wearied  by  the  length  of  the 
performance,  put  a  Bible  into  his  hands.  La  Fontaine 
opened  it  at  the  book  of  Baruch,  and  was  so  much  struck 
with  what  he  there  read,  that  he  could  not  help  crying  out  to 
his  companion  :  "  This  Baruch  is  a  very  fine  writer ;  do  you 
know  anything  of  him?"  And  for'S'everal  days  after,  he 
asked  everybody  that  he  met :  "  Have  you  ever  read  Ba- 
ruch ?  He's  a  man  of  first-rate  genius.  Do  you  know  who 
lie  was  ? "  One  day  he  met  his  o%\-n  son,  whom  he  did  not 
recognize,  and  remarked  to  him  that  he  was  a  lad  of  parts 
and  spii-it.  Being  told  that  the  youth  was  his  own  son,  he 
merely  observed  that  "  he  was  very  glad  to  hear  it."  In 
1693,  when  he  was  believed  to  be  dying,  Poujet,  vicar  of 
St.  Roch,  brought  him  the  Kew  Testament.  He  read  it, 
and  assured  his  friends :  "  Je  vous  assure  que  c'est  un  fort 
bon  livre ;  oui,  par  ma  foi,  c'est  un  fort  bon  livre." 

As  an  author.  La  Fontaine  will  be  best  known  to  pos- 
terity by  his  Fables.  He  published  other  M'orks,  of  which 
the  best  known  are  his  "  Contes,"  or  Tales,  the  first  volume 
of  which  appeared  in  1664,  the  second  in  1671.  These 
abound  in  fine  touches  of  his  genius,  but  are  polluted  with 
such  a  taint  of  gross  license  and  indecency,  that  they  are 
now  seldom  read  even  by  his  own  countrymen.  As  a 
fabulist,  however,  La  Fontaine  has  never  had  his  equal, 
either  in  ancient  or  modem  times.  He  has,  indeed,  little 
or  no  originality  of  invention,  for  most  of  his  tales  are 


JEAN    DE    LA    FONTAINE.  323 

taken  from  Boccaccio,  Ariosto,  Macliiavelli,  and  others, 
and  yEsop  has  suggested  tlie  idea  of  the  great  majority  of 
his  fables.  IJis  reflections  are  not  remarkable  either  for 
depth  or  novelty,  and  he  displays  an  almost  total  incapacity 
for  continiions  thinking  ;  but  his  manner  of  telling  his  sto- 
ries is  quite  inhnitable,  and  in  that  lies  the  principal  charm 
of  his  writings.  "  His  narrative,"  as  has  been  remarked 
by  Laharpe,  "  is  distinguished  by  that  ease  and  grace  which 
are  to  be  perceived,  not  described ;  for  if,  after  a  profound 
philosophical  investigation,  we  arrived  at  the  ultimate  causes 
of  excellence,  and  referred  the  matter  to  La  Fontaine  him- 
self, the  '  bonhomme '  wonld  say,  '  I  know  nothing  about 
all  this  ;  I  wrote  as  my  humor  dictated,  and  that  was  all.' " 
The  rapidity  of  his  transitions  from  the  most  sparkling 
wit  to  the  most  touching  pathos,  his  occasional  gleams  of 
the  finest  humor  and  fancy,  and  his  delicate  touches  of  ob- 
servation, are  all  enhanced  by  a  diction  simple  and  refined, 
and  presenting  in  almost  every  line  some  happy  tm'n  of 
expression  or  some  graceful  naivete  of  sentiment. 


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